«Now you take Maxfield Parrish,» he said. «I suppose he doesn't count, but just the same he gives 'em
what they want. While a guy like Gauguin has to struggle for a crust of bread—and even when he's dead they
spit in his eye. It's a queer game, art. I suppose it's like everything else—you do it because you like it, that's
about the size of it, what? Now you take that bastard sitting alongside of you—yeah you!» he said, grinning at
me through the mirror— «he thinks we ought to support him, nurse him along until he writes his masterpiece.
He never thinks that he might look for a job meanwhile. Oh no, he wouldn't soil his lily−white hands that way.
He's an artist. Well, maybe he is, for all I know. But he's got to prove it first, am I right? Did anybody support
me because I thought I was a lawyer? It's all right to have dreams—we all like to dream—but somebody has
to pay the rent.»
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