life, or rather it is made for him; no other life seems possible. I know there is a general belief that an artist does the kind of thing he has made go because it pays; but this only shows the prevalence of business ideals. If he did not love to do the thing he does he could not do it well, no matter how richly it paid."
"I am glad to hear it," said the banker, and he added to the Altrurian: "So you see we are not so bad as one would think. We are illogically better, in fact."
"Yes," the other assented. "I knew something of your literature as well as your conditions before I left home, and I perceived that by some anomaly, the one was not tainted by the other. It is a miraculous proof of the divine mission of the poet."
"And the popular novelist," the lawyer whispered in my ear, but loud enough for the rest to hear, and they all testified their amusement at my cost.
The Altrurian, with his weak sense of humor, passed the joke. "It shows no signs of corruption from greed, but I can't help thinking that fine as it is, it might have been much finer if the authors who produced it had been absolutely freed to their work, and had never felt the spur of need."
