"I mostly think not. You know as well
as I what he has to do: the concentration, the finish, the independence
he must strive for from the moment he begins to wish his work really
decent. Ah my young friend, his relation to women, and especially to the
one he's most intimately concerned with, is at the mercy of the damning
fact that whereas he can in the nature of things have but one standard,
they have about fifty. That's what makes them so superior," St. George
amusingly added. "Fancy an artist with a change of standards as you'd
have a change of shirts or of dinner-plates. To _do_ it--to do it and
make it divine--is the only thing he has to think about. 'Is it done or
not?' is his only question. Not 'Is it done as well as a proper
solicitude for my dear little family will allow?' He has nothing to do
with the relative--he has only to do with the absolute; and a dear little
family may represent a dozen relatives."

"Then you don't allow him the common passions and affections of men?"
Paul asked.

"Hasn't he a passion, an affection, which includes all the rest? Besides,
let him have all the passions he likes--if he only keeps his
independence. He must be able to be poor."

Paul slowly got up. "Why then did you advise me to make up to her?"

St. George laid his hand on his shoulder. "Because she'd make a splendid
wife! And I hadn't read you then."

The young man had a strained smile. "I wish you had left me alone!"

"I didn't know that that wasn't good enough for you," his host returned.

"What a false position, what a condemnation of the artist, that he's a
mere disfranchised monk and can produce his effect only by giving up
personal happiness. What an arraignment of art!" Paul went on with a
trembling voice.

"Ah you don't imagine by chance that I'm defending art? 'Arraignment'--I
should think so! Happy the societies in which it hasn't made its
appearance, for from the moment it comes they have a consuming ache, they
have an incurable corruption, in their breast. Most assuredly is the
artist in a false position! But I thought we were taking him for
granted. Pardon me," St. George continued: "'Ginistrella' made me!"

Paul stood looking at the floor--one o'clock struck, in the stillness,
from a neighbouring church-tower. "Do you think she'd ever look at me?"
he put to his friend at last.

"Miss Fancourt--as a suitor? Why shouldn't I think it? That's why I've
tried to favour you--I've had