“When You say that art is an end in itself,” Miriam resumed abruptly, “you claim, I suppose, that it is a way of serving mankind?”

Mallard was learning the significance of her tones.  In this instance, he knew that the words “serving mankind” were a contemptuous use of a phrase she had heard, a phrase which represented the philosophy alien to her own.

“Indeed, I claim nothing of the kind,” he replied, laughing.  “Art may, or may not, serve such a purpose; but be assured that the artist never thinks of his work in that way.”

“You make no claim, then, even of usefulness?”

“Most decidedly, none.  You little imagine how distasteful the word is to me in such connection.”

“Then how can you say you are employing your best natural powers?”

She had fallen to ingenuous surprise, and Mallard again laughed, partly at the simplicity of the question, partly because it pleased him to have brought her to such directness.

“Because,” he answered, “this work gives me keener and more lasting pleasure than any other would.  And I am not a man easily pleased with my own endeavours, Mrs. Baske.  I work with little or no hope of ever satisfying myself—­that is another thing.  I have heard men speak of my kind of art as ‘the noble pursuit of Truth,’ and so on.  I don’t care for such phrases; they may mean something, but as a rule come of the very spirit so opposed to my own—­that which feels it necessary to justify art by bombast.  The one object I have in life is to paint a bit of the world just as I see it.  I exhaust myself in vain toil; I shall never succeed; but I am right to persevere, I am right to go on pleasing myself.”

Miriam listened in astonishment.

“With such views, Mr. Mallard, it is fortunate that you happen to find pleasure in painting pictures.”

“Which, at all events, do people no harm.”

She turned upon him suddenly.

“Do you encourage my brother in believing that his duty in life is to please himself?”

“It has been my effort,” he replied gravely.

“I don’t understand you,” Miriam said, in indignation.

“No, you do not.  I mean to say that I believe your brother is not really pleased with the kind of life he has too long been leading; that to please himself he must begin serious work of some kind.”

“That is playing with words, and on a subject ill-chosen for it.”

“Mrs. Baske, do you seriously believe that Reuben Elgar can be made a man of steady purpose by considerations that have primary reference to any one or anything but himself?”

She made no answer.

“I am not depreciating him.  The same will apply (if you are content to face the truth) to many a man whom you would esteem.  I am sorry that I have lost your confidence, but that is better than to keep it by repeating idle formulas that the world’s experience has outgrown.”