UNCLE RICHARD

Dick!  Richard!  At last!  How are you?  You received my letter?

RICHARD

I am very well, uncle.  Yes, I received your letter.  It was forwarded from Florence.

UNCLE RICHARD

Good!  Sit down, Richard, sit down.

RICHARD

I did not receive it until a few days ago, in New York.  I came on as soon as possible.  But I had engagements—­business engagements—­that delayed me.

UNCLE RICHARD

Business?  I am very glad, Richard, that you have given up your art.  Not that art isn’t entirely commendable, but in times like these, you know....

RICHARD

Don’t misunderstand me, uncle.  My business was connected with art.  I haven’t given up painting.  I never shall.

UNCLE RICHARD

In my letter—­

RICHARD

Yes.  Cousin Anne wrote me about Aunt Ethel’s death, but I did not realize how changed everything here was until I read that letter from you.  And now (glancing about) it is even clearer.  It must have been a bitter shock to you, Uncle Richard.  You had both come to the point where you could have done so much with life.  But you are quite well, Uncle Richard?

UNCLE RICHARD

I am never unwell.  I don’t believe in it.  Yes, everything was ready here.  In its larger issue, my life has not been unsuccessful....  But your business, Richard, it came out well, I hope?

RICHARD

Quite.  You see after graduating I borrowed a certain sum to go abroad with a classmate.  We had a plan for doing a book on modern Italy, he writing the text and I making illustrations.  We had quite a new idea about it all.  It was good fun besides.  Well, the work has been placed, and now after repaying the loan I have enough to take a studio and begin painting in earnest.

UNCLE RICHARD

Hum.

RICHARD

I believe I have a copy of one of the sketches with me. (He tears a sheet from a note book and hands it to Uncle Richard.)

UNCLE RICHARD (looking at it wrong side up)

A sketch.  I see.  Of course it is unfinished?

RICHARD

Yes.  But then, no painting should be what you call “finished.”  A work of art can only be finished by the mental effort of appreciation on the part of the spectator.  Photographs and chromos are finished—­that’s why they are dead.