Mr. Waddington looked dubious.
"It's never been tried. Just this once it came off, but as a regular
thing I should have no confidence in it. People like to be
gulled. They've been brought up to it. They ask for lies--that's why
the world's so full of them. Case of supply and demand, you know."
"According to you, then," Burton remarked, a little dolefully, "it seems
as though this change in us unfits us for any sort of practical life."
Mr. Waddington coughed. Even his cough was no longer strident.
"That," he confessed, "has been worrying me. I find it hard to see the
matter differently. If one might venture upon a somewhat personal
question, how did you manage to discover a vocation? You seem to be
prospering," he added, glancing at his companion's neat clothes and gray
silk tie.
"I was fortunate," Burton admitted frankly. "I discovered quite by
accident the one form in which it is possible to palm off the truth on
an unsuspecting public."
Mr. Waddington laid down his knife and fork. He was intensely
interested.
"Art," Burton murmured softly.
"Art?" Mr. Waddington echoed under his breath, a little vaguely. The
questioning gleam was still in his eyes.
"Painting, sculpture, in my case writing," Burton explained.
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