You're a hopeless
Philisterine. But I have no intentions of shuttin' up, my darlin'
Anita--Anita--Shh! shh!"
He was hushing himself. He was very patently remembering something
and conspicuously warning himself not to divulge it. Kedzie loathed
him too much to care. Now that he was safely housed he ceased to
interest her. She went to bed. He spiraled into a chair to meditate
his wickedness. He felt that he was as near to being a hypocrite
as was possible in Bohemia.
He had met two talented ladies at the dinner, one was a sculptress
from Mr. Samuel Merwin's Washington Square and the other was a
paintress from Mr. Owen Johnson's Lincoln Square. Neither lady
had had any work accepted by the Academy or bought by a dealer.
Both were consequently as fierce against intrenched art as Gilfoyle
was against intrenched capital and literature.
They were there in the company of two writers. One of these could not
get anything published at all except in the toy magazines, which paid
little and late and died early. The other writer could get published,
but not sold. Both were young and needed only to pound their irons
on the anvil to get them hot, but they blamed the world for being
cold to true art. In time they would make the sparks fly and would
be in their turn assailed as mere blacksmiths by the next line of
younger apprentices. They were at present in the same stage as any
other new business--they were building up custom in a neighborhood
of strangers.
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