UNCLE RICHARD

I was not aware of the fact.  But ... you will remember, Richard, that in my letter I asked you to visit me?

RICHARD

Of course.  And I shall be very pleased to stay for a few days.  Very kind of you to ask me.

UNCLE RICHARD

Not at all, Richard, not at all!  I—­

RICHARD

On Monday I must return to New York and look for a studio.  With the book coming out I feel I shall have no trouble selling my work.

UNCLE RICHARD

Studio?  Isn’t that—­hem! rather Bohemian, Richard?

RICHARD

Good gracious, uncle, you haven’t been reading George Moore, have you?

UNCLE RICHARD

But Richard, did you not understand that I wanted you to stay here longer than that?

RICHARD

Why no.  How long did you mean?

UNCLE RICHARD

Er—­I hadn’t thought, exactly.  I mean that I wanted you to bring your things here—­bring your things here and just live on with me.

RICHARD

I had no idea you meant that.  Anyhow, as I couldn’t paint here, it’s impossible.  But, of course, if you care to have me stay a few days longer—­

UNCLE RICHARD

But I have everything arranged for you here.  Your room—­everything.

RICHARD

But you see, uncle, my work—­

UNCLE RICHARD

I hope you will give up your art, but if you must paint I will provide you a room for it.  Do you know how many rooms there are in this house, Richard?

RICHARD

Really, Uncle Richard, I thank you, but—­

UNCLE RICHARD

Don’t mention it.  And of course you can see to its proper arrangement yourself.

RICHARD

I had no idea of this when I came and—­but you see, it’s not only the studio an artist requires, it’s atmosphere, the atmosphere of enthusiasm and feeling.  You might as well give a business man a brand new office equipment and turn him loose on the Sahara desert as to shut a painter up in a town like this and expect him to create.  Artists need atmosphere just as business men need banks.  It’s the meeting of like forces that makes anything really go.