But I have dedicated this wilderness
as a last and only refuge in all the world for true Art! Because
true Art, except for my pictures, is, I believe, now practically
extinct!... You're in my way. Would you mind getting out?"
I had sidled around between him and his bowl of nasturtiums, and I
hastily stepped aside. He squinted at the flowers, mixed up a flamboyant
mess of colour on his palette, and daubed away with unfeigned
satisfaction, no longer noticing me until I started to go. Then:
"What is it you're here for, anyway?" he demanded abruptly. I said with
dignity:
"I am here to investigate those huge rings of earth thrown up in the
forest as by a gigantic mole." He continued to paint for a few moments:
"Well, go and investigate 'em," he snapped. "I'm not infatuated with your
society."
"What do you think they are?" I asked, mildly ignoring his wretched
manners.
"I don't know and I don't care, except, that sometimes when I begin to
paint several trees, the very trees I'm painting are suddenly heaved up
and tilted in every direction, and all my work goes for nothing. _That_
makes me mad! Otherwise, the matter has no interest for me.
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