Anastase had told his story with many pauses, working hard while he spoke, for though he was quite in earnest in all he said, his chief object was to distract the young man’s attention, so as to bring out his natural expression.  Having exhausted one of the colours he needed, he drew back and contemplated his work.  Orsino seemed lost in thought.

“What are you thinking about?” asked the painter.

“Do you think I am too old to become an artist?” enquired the young man.

“You?  Who knows?  But the times are too old.  It is the same thing.”

“I do not understand.”

“You are in love with the life—­not with the profession.  But the life is not the same now, nor the art either.  Bah!  In a few years I shall be out of fashion.  I know it.  Then we will go back to first principles.  A garret to live in, bread and salad for dinner.  Of course—­what do you expect?  That need not prevent us from living in a palace as long as we can.”

Thereupon Anastase Gouache hummed a very lively little song as he squeezed a few colours from the tubes.  Orsino’s face betrayed his discontentment.

“I was not in earnest,” he said.  “At least, not as to becoming an artist.  I only asked the question to be sure that you would answer it just as everybody answers all questions of the kind—­by discouraging my wish do anything for myself.”

“Why should you do anything?  You are so rich!”

“What everybody says!  Do you know what we rich men, or we men who are to be rich, are expected to be?  Farmers.  It is not gay.”

“It would be my dream—­pastoral, you know—­Normandy cows, a river with reeds, perpetual Angelus, bread and milk for supper.  I adore milk.  A nymph here and there—­at your age, it is permitted.  My dear friend, why not be a farmer?”

Orsino laughed a little, in spite of himself.

“I suppose that is an artist’s idea of farming.”

“As near the truth as a farmer’s idea of art, I daresay,” retorted Gouache.

“We see you paint, but you never see us at work.  That is the difference—­but that is not the question.  Whatever I propose, I get the same answer.  I imagine you will permit me to dislike farming as a profession.”

“For the sake of argument, only,” said Gouache gravely.

“Good.  For the sake of argument.  We will suppose that I am myself in all respects what I am, excepting that I am never to have any land, and only enough money to buy cigarettes.  I say, ’Let me take a profession.  Let me be a soldier.’  Every one rises up and protests against the idea of a Saracinesca serving in the Italian army.  Why?  Remember that your father was a volunteer officer under Pope Pius Ninth.’  It is comic.  He spent an afternoon on the Pincio for his convictions, and then retired into private life.  ’Let me serve in a foreign army—­France, Austria, Russia, I do not care.’  They are more horrified than ever.  ’You have not a spark of patriotism!