“I only desire to remind you,” she pursued, “that you are likely to have your hands full.”

“I ’ve thought of that, and I rather like the idea; liking, as I do, the man.  I told you the other day, you know, that I longed to have something on my hands.  When it first occurred to me that I might start our young friend on the path of glory, I felt as if I had an unimpeachable inspiration.  Then I remembered there were dangers and difficulties, and asked myself whether I had a right to step in between him and his obscurity.  My sense of his really having the divine flame answered the question.  He is made to do the things that humanity is the happier for!  I can’t do such things myself, but when I see a young man of genius standing helpless and hopeless for want of capital, I feel—­and it ’s no affectation of humility, I assure you—­as if it would give at least a reflected usefulness to my own life to offer him his opportunity.”

“In the name of humanity, I suppose, I ought to thank you.  But I want, first of all, to be happy myself.  You guarantee us at any rate, I hope, the masterpieces.”

“A masterpiece a year,” said Rowland smiling, “for the next quarter of a century.”

“It seems to me that we have a right to ask more:  to demand that you guarantee us not only the development of the artist, but the security of the man.”

Rowland became grave again.  “His security?”

“His moral, his sentimental security.  Here, you see, it ’s perfect.  We are all under a tacit compact to preserve it.  Perhaps you believe in the necessary turbulence of genius, and you intend to enjoin upon your protege the importance of cultivating his passions.”

“On the contrary, I believe that a man of genius owes as much deference to his passions as any other man, but not a particle more, and I confess I have a strong conviction that the artist is better for leading a quiet life.  That is what I shall preach to my protege, as you call him, by example as well as by precept.  You evidently believe,” he added in a moment, “that he will lead me a dance.”

“Nay, I prophesy nothing.  I only think that circumstances, with our young man, have a great influence; as is proved by the fact that although he has been fuming and fretting here for the last five years, he has nevertheless managed to make the best of it, and found it easy, on the whole, to vegetate.  Transplanted to Rome, I fancy he ’ll put forth a denser leafage.  I should like vastly to see the change.  You must write me about it, from stage to stage.  I hope with all my heart that the fruit will be proportionate to the foliage.  Don’t think me a bird of ill omen; only remember that you will be held to a strict account.”

“A man should make the most of himself, and be helped if he needs help,” Rowland answered, after a long pause.  “Of course when a body begins to expand, there comes in the possibility of bursting; but I nevertheless approve of a certain tension of one’s being.  It ’s what a man is meant for.  And then I believe in the essential salubrity of genius—­true genius.”