id by time and not by the job--because
comparisons on a monetary basis ain't fair, one way or another--for
better or worse, Carpaccio hadn't a dad in the Oil Trust--I say, putting
this aside, the credit goes to their temperament, or, if you like, part
to that and part to their environment. It wasn't _in_ them to hustle:
they felt no call for it, but just sat and painted and took their meals
regular. Now that spacious holy sauntering don't figure in my bill.
When I get hold of a notion--same as this Infant Shakespeare, f'r
instance--it's apt to take hold on me as a mighty fine proposition; and
then, before I can slap it on canvas, the thing's gone, faded, extinct,
like a sunset." He paused and snapped his fingers expressively.
"I paint like Hades, but it beats me by a head every time."

--"And what's the reason? I'm fickle, you say. But that's my
temperament, and before a man kicks against _that_ he ought to be clear
whether it's original sin or the outcome of his environment. See what I
mean?"

Arthur Miles was too truthful to say that he did. Indeed, he understood
next to nothing of this harangue. But the young American's manner, so
eager, so boyishly confidential, set him at his ease; while beneath this
voluble flow of talk there moved a deeper current for which, all
unconsciously, the child's spirit thirsted. He did not realise this at
all, but his eyes shone while he listened.

"I'll put it this way: We're in the twentieth century. Between the old
masters and us something has happened. What? Why Speed, sir--modern
civilisation has discovered Speed. Railways--telegraphs--'phones--
elevators--automobiles--Atlantic records. These inventions, sir"--here
as will happen to Americans when they philosophise, Mr. Jessup slipped
into an oratorical style--"have altered man's whole environment.
Velasquez, sir, was a great artist, and Velasquez could paint, in his
day, to beat the band. But I argue that, if you resurrected Velasquez
to-day, he'd have to alter his outlook, and everything along with it,
right away down to his brush-work. And I go on to argue that if I can't
paint like Velasquez--which is a cold fact--it's equally a fact that, if
I could, I oughtn't. Speed, sir: that's the great proposition--the
principles of Speed as applied to the Fine Arts--"

Here he glanced towards the clearing between the willows, where at this
moment Tilda reappeared in a hurry, followed--at a sedater pace--by a
young w