"Happy? It's a kind of hell."
"There are things I should like to ask you," Paul Overt said, hesitating.
"Ask me anything in all the world. I'd turn myself inside out to save you."
"To save me?" Paul repeated.
"To make you stick to it—to make you see it through. As I said to you the other night at Summersoft, let my example be vivid to you."
"Why, your books are not so bad as that," said Paul, laughing and feeling that he breathed the air of art.
"So bad as what?"
"Your talent is so great that it is in everything you do, in what's less good as well as in what's best. You've some forty volumes to show for it—forty volumes of life, of observation, of magnificent ability."
"I'm very clever, of course I know that," St. George replied, quietly. "Lord, what rot they'd all be if I hadn't been! I'm a successful charlatan—I've been able to pass off my system. But do you know what it is? It's carton-pierre."
"Ah, don't say such things—you make me bleed! " the younger man protested. "I see you in a beautiful, fortunate home, living in comfort and honour."
"Do you call it honour?" St. George interrupted, with an intonation that often comes back to his companion. "That's what I want you to go in for. I mean the real thing. This is brummagaem."
"Brummagaem?" Paul ejaculated, while his eyes wandered, by a movement natural at the moment, over the luxurious room.
"Ah, they make it so well to-day; it's wonderfully deceptive!"