The language
lends itself to perfect lucidity, and the Paris press allows men to
write as men. Besides, the French admire word-painting, which is my
particular vein. The English don't. They like composition. Here an
author's pen must remain always a stick dipped in ink. It must never
become what mine is--a painter's brush, wet, dripping, overflowing
with oil colour. It struck me you might care to come too, and do the
same with your verse. If so--come, by all means."
I looked down at his intelligent face and hoped he would come.
Selfish, conceited, and self-sufficient as I may be, there is a
strand of weakness made up in my composition that forces me to find
the companionship of another intellect whenever possible.
"Yes; I'll come," he answered after a minute, getting on to his feet
and thrusting both hands into his pockets with an energetic air.
"I'm rather dubious about the books and the translation business;
but anyway we can have a high old time in Paris!"
"But look here, Howard," I returned, "whether I succeed or not, I am
not meditating having any high old time, or rather what you mean--a
low old time. I'm going there to work."
"Oh, we all know you're a saint!" he said derisively. "But--'A
doubtful throne is ice on summer seas!' We shall see how long your
virtue lasts at La Scala and in the Champs Elysees, with Lucia
safely packed away in England!"
I smiled and raised my eyebrows in silence.
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