with,' he said,
'it would set up a constraint between us, and constraint in my family
relations is what, God helping me, I'll never allow. And next, whatever
I saved on you I'd just have to re-invest, and I'm over-capitalised as
it is--you 'd never guess the straits I'm put to daily in keeping fair
abreast of fifteen per cent., which is my notion of making two ends
meet. And, lastly, it ain't natural. If a man's born vola_tile_,
vola_tile_ he is; and the sensible plan, I take it, is to lean your ear
to Nature, the Mighty Mother, and find a career that has some use for
that kind of temperament. Now,' said my father, 'I know a little about
most legitimate careers, from ticket-punching up to lobbying, and
there's not one in which a man would hand in testimonials that he was
vola_tile_. But,' says my father, 'what about Art? I've never taken
stock of that occupation, myself: I never had time. But I remember once
in New York going to a theatre and seeing Booth act William
Shakespeare's _Macbeth_; and not twenty minutes later, after all the
ghosts and murderings, I happened into a restaurant, and saw the same
man drinking cocktails and eating Blue Point oysters--with twice my
appetite too. And Booth was at the very top of his profession.'"

"Yes," said Arthur Miles, by this time greatly interested. "That's like
Mr. Mortimer, too."

"Mortimer?" Mr. Jessup queried; and then, getting no answer, "Is he an
actor?"

The boy nodded.

"A prominent one?"

"I--I believe so. I mean, he says he _ought_ to be."

"I'd like to make his acquaintance. It's queer, too, a child like you
knowing about actors. What's your name?"

"I don't know," said Arthur Miles, with another glance in the direction
of the inn, "that Tilda would like me to tell."

The young artist eyed him.

"Well, never mind; we were talking about my father. That's how he came
to send me to Paris to study Art. And since then I've done some
thinking. It works out like this," he pursued, stepping back and
studying his daub between half-closed eyes, "the old man had struck ore
as usual. I never knew a mind fuller of common sense--just homely
common sense--but he hadn't the time to work it. Yet it works easy
enough if you keep hold of the argument. The Old Masters--we're always
having it dinned into us--didn't hustle; they mugged away at a Saint, or
a Virgin and Child, and never minded if it took 'em half a lifetime.
Well, putting aside their being pa