Crane, Stephen, 1871-1900 / 2008-09-24 00:00:00

We will have to postpone the _melee_."
Later he met Miss Fanhall. "You look as if you were going for a walk?"
"I am," she said, swinging her parasol. "To meet the stage. Have you
seen Mr. Hawker to-day?"
"No," he said. "He is not coming up this morning. He is in a great fret
about that field of stubble, and I suppose he is down there sketching
the life out of it. These artists--they take such a fiendish interest in
their work. I dare say we won't see much of him until he has finished
it. Where did you say you were going to walk?"
"To meet the stage."
"Oh, well, I won't have to play tennis for an hour, and if you
insist----"
"Of course."
As they strolled slowly in the shade of the trees Hollanden began,
"Isn't that Hawker an ill-bred old thing?"
"No, he is not." Then after a time she said, "Why?"
"Oh, he gets so absorbed in a beastly smudge of paint that I really
suppose he cares nothing for anything else in the world. Men who are
really artists--I don't believe they are capable of deep human
affections. So much of them is occupied by art. There's not much left
over, you see."
"I don't believe it at all," she exclaimed.
"You don't, eh?" cried Hollanden scornfully.
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