I solemnly, "is to alleviate the
inconveniences of mundane existence. Science, therefore, shall extend
a helping hand to her frailer sister, Art--"

"Science can't patronize Art while I'm around!" he retorted. "I won't
have it!"

"But, my dear Mr. Blythe--"

"I won't dispute with you, either! I don't like to dispute!" he shouted.
"Don't try to make me. Don't attempt to inveigle me into discussion! I
know all I want to know. I don't want to know anything you want me to
know, either!"

I looked at the old pig in haughty silence, nauseated by his conceit.

After he had plastered a few more tubes of vermilion over his canvas he
quieted down, and presently gave me an oblique glance over his shoulder.

"Well," he said, "what else are you intending to investigate?"

"Those little animals that live in the crater fires," I said bluntly.

"Yes," he nodded, indifferently, "there are creatures which live
somewhere in the fires of that crater."

"Do you realize what an astounding statement you are making?" I asked.

"It doesn't astound _me_. What do I care whether it astounds you or
anybody else? Nothing interests me except Art."

"But--"

"I tell you nothing interests me except Art!" he yelled. "Don't dispute
it! Don't answer me! Don't irritate me! I don't care whether anything
lives in the fire or not! Let it live there!"

"But have you actually seen live creatures in the flames?"

"Plenty! _Plenty!_ What of it? What about it? Let 'em live there, for all
I care. I've painted pictures of 'em, too. That's all that interests me."

"What do they look like, Mr. Blythe?"

"Look like? _I_ don't know! They look like weasels or rats or bats or
cats or--stop asking me questions! It irritates me! It depresses me!
Don't ask any more! Why don't you go in to lunch? And--tell my daughter
to bring me a bowl of salad out here. _I've_ no time to stuff myself.
Some people have. _I_ haven't. You'd better go in to lunch.... And tell
my daughter to bring me seven tubes of Chinese vermilion with my salad!"

"You don't mean to mix--" I began, then checked myself before his fury.

"I'd rather eat vermilion paint on my salad than sit here talking to
_you_!" he shouted.

I cast a pitying glance at this impossible man, and went into the house.
After all, he was _her_ father. I _had_ to endure him.

* * * * *

After Miss Blythe had carried to her father a large bucket of lettuce
leaves, she returned to