"I hate art, as you call it. I thought I did, I knew I did; but till this morning I didn't know how much."
"Bless your soul, that wasn't art," pleaded Nick. "The real thing will be a thousand miles away from us; it will never come into the house, soyez tranquille. Why then should you worry?"
"Because I want to understand, I want to know what I'm doing. You're an artist: you are, you are!" Mrs. Dallow cried, accusing him passionately.
"My poor Julia, it isn't so easy as that, nor a character one can take on from one day to the other. There are all sorts of things; one must be caught young and put through the mill and see things as they are. There would be sacrifices I never can make."
"Well then, there are sacrifices for both of us, and I can't make them either. I dare say it's all right for you, but for me it would be a terrible mistake. When I think I'm doing something I mustn't do just the opposite," Julia went on, as if she wished to explain and be clear. "There are things I've thought of, the things I like best; and they are not what you mean. It would be a great deception, and it's not the way I see my life, and it would be misery if we don't understand."
Nick looked at her in hard perplexity, for she did not succeed in explaining as well as she wished. "If we don't understand what?"
"That we are awfully different—that you are doing it all for me."
"And is that an objection to me—what I do for you?" asked Nick.
