Yes, that is the conclusion I am
working round to. The artist is the only sane man. Life for its own
sake?--no; I would drink a pint of laudanum to-night. But life as
the source of splendid pictures, inexhaustible material for effects
--_that_ can reconcile me to existence, and that only. It is a
delight followed by no bitter after-taste, and the only such delight
I know."
Harriet was very quiet when Julian returned. She went about getting
the tea with a sort of indifference; she let a cup fall and break,
but made no remark, and left her husband to pick up the pieces.
"Waymark thinks I'm neglecting him," said Julian, with a laugh, as
they sat down together.
"It's better to neglect him than to neglect me, I should think," was
Harriet's reply, in a quiet ill-natured tone which she was mistress
of.
"But couldn't we find out some way of doing neither, dear?" went on
Julian, playing with his spoon. "Now suppose I give him a couple of
hours one evening every week? You could spare that, couldn't you?
Say, from eight to ten on Wednesdays?"
"I suppose you'll go if you want to." said Harriet, rising from the
tea-table, and taking a seat sulkily by the window.
"Come, come, we won't say any more about it, if it's so disagreeable
to you," said Julian, going up to her, and coaxing her back to her
place.
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