habit of saying the things that, by her quick calculation, would give people pleasure. Overt divined that she would always calculate on everything's being simple between others.
"I shouldn't have supposed he knew anything about me," Paul said, smiling.
"He does then—everything. And if he didn't, I should be able to tell him."
"To tell him everything?"
"You talk just like the people in your book!" the girl exclaimed.
"Then they must all talk alike."
"Well, it must be so difficult. Mr. St. George tells me it is, terribly. I've tried too and I find it so. I've tried to write a novel."
"Mr. St. George oughtn't to discourage you," said Paul Overt.
"You do much more—when you wear that expression."
"Well, after all, why try to be an artist?" the young man went on. "It's so poor—so poor!"
"I don't know what you mean," said Marian Fancourt, looking grave.
"I mean as compared with being a person of action—as living your works."
"But what is art but a life—if it be real?" asked the girl. "I think it's the only one—everything else is so clumsy!" Paul Overt laughed, and she continued: "It's so interesting, meeting so many celebrated people."
"So I should think; but surely it isn't new to you."
"Why, I have never seen any one—any one: living always in Asia."
"But doesn't Asia swarm with personages? Haven't you administered provinces in India and had captive rajahs and tributary princes chained to your car?"