"Not about the great thing."
"The great thing?"
"That I owe you everything an honest man has to offer. How can I care about the fine arts now?"
Mrs. Dallow stopped, looking at him. "Is it because you think you owe it—" and she paused, still with the heightened colour in her cheek; then she went on—"that you have spoken to me as you did there?" She tossed her head toward the lake.
"I think I spoke to you because I couldn't help it."
"You are vague." And Mrs. Dallow walked on again.
"You affect me differently from any other woman."
"Oh, other women! Why shouldn't you care about the fine arts now?" she added.
"There will be no time. All my days and my years will be none too much to do what you expect of me."
"I don't expect you to give up anything. I only expect you to do more."
"To do more I must do less. I have no talent."
"No talent!"
"I mean for painting."
Mrs. Dallow stopped again. "That's odious! You have—you must."
Nick burst out laughing. "You're altogether delightful. But how little you know about it—about the honourable practice of any art!"
"What do you call practice? You'll have all our things—you'll live in the midst of them."
"Certainly I shall enjoy looking at them, being so near them."
