I'm sure I should."
"Oh, it very soon gets to be an old story," was his answer. "One studio
is very like another."
"But their work? That must be awfully interesting."
"Yes, to a novice, but that soon gets to be an old story too. An artist
is only a man who puts paint or charcoal on cardboard or canvas with
more or less cleverness, just as an author is a man who has more or
less skill in getting ink on to paper."
Miss Merrivale laughed, with more glee than comprehension.
"You are always so witty," she said. "I don't wonder your books sell. I
think that girl who couldn't tell which man she liked best was just too
funny for anything. I can't for the life of me see how you think of
such things, anyway."
"The trouble isn't to think what to say, but to tell what not to say."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean. Now of course an artist just sees
things, and all he has to do is to make pictures of them; but you have
to make up things."
"But we see things too," the novelist responded, smiling upon her, and
reflecting that she was looking uncommonly pretty that morning.
"Oh, but that's different. Now you never knew a girl who was hesitating
which of two lovers to choose, and she wouldn't tell you how she felt
if you did; but there it is all in your book so natural that every girl
says to herself that's just the way she should feel.
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