Show me a genius and I'll show you a madman--according
to the world's notion."
"There you go again," cried Quell, arising to his knees. "Genius, _I_
believe, is a disease of the nerves; and I don't mind telling you that I
consider poets and musicians quite crazy."
Arved's eyes were blazing blue signals.
"But, my dear Quell, are not all men mad at some time or another? Madly
in love, religiously mad, patriotically insane, and idiotic on the
subject of clothes, blood, social precedence, handsome persons, money?
And is it not a sign of insanity when one man claims sanity for his own
particular art? Painting, I admit, is--"
"What the devil do you know about painting?" Quell roughly interposed;
"you are a poet and, pretending to love all creation,--altruism, I think
your sentimental philosophers call it,--have the conceit to believe you
bear a star in your stomach when it is only a craving for rum. I've
been through the game."
He began to pace the sward, chewing a blade of grass. He spoke in
hurried, staccato phrases:--
"Why was I put away? Listen: I tried to paint the sun,--for I hate your
moon and its misty madness.
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