I can write just as well with a hole in the seat of my breeches as not.” And laughing coarsely, with robust and manly good nature, he smote Eugene on the back again, and rasped out heartily:
“Ain’t that right, kid?”
“Oh, Pooly!” cried Effie reproachfully—“And I do so want you to be a genius—like Mr. Starwick!”
“Now, wait a minute! Wait a minute!” he rasped, lifting a commanding hand, as he joined with her in this ugly banter. “That’s different! Starwick’s an artist—I’m nothing but a writer. They don’t understand the way we artists work—do they, Starwick? Now an artist is sensitive to all these things,” he went on in a jocose explanatory tone to his wife. “He’s got to have the right atmosphere to work in. Everything’s got to be just right for us artists—doesn’t it, Starwick?”
“Quite!” said Starwick coldly.
“Now with me it’s different,” said Horton heavily. “I’m just one of those big crude guys who can write anywhere. I get up in the morning and write, whether I feel like it or not. But it’s different with us artists, isn’t it, Starwick? Why, with a real honest-to-God-dyed-in-the-wool artist like Starwick, his whole life would be ruined for a month if his pants didn’t fit or if his neck-tie was of the wrong shade…. Ain’t that right, Starwick?”
And he laughed heavily, apparently with robust fellowship, hearty good nature, but his eyes were ugly, evil, jeering, as he spoke.
“Quite!” said Starwick as before; and, his face deeply flushed, he called sharply to his dog, and then, turning inquiringly to Eugene, said quietly: “Are we ready?”
“Oh, I see, I see!” cried Effie, with an air of gay enlightenment. “That’s what everyone is all dressed up about!—You’re out for a walk, aren’t you?—all among the little birdies, and the beeses, and the flowers! My! My! How I wish I could go along! Pooly!” she said coaxingly, “why don’t you take me for a walk sometime? I’d love to hear the little birdies sing! Come on, dear. Won’t you?” she said coaxingly.
“Nope!” he boomed out finally. “I walked you across the bridge and I walked to the corner this morning for a paper. That’s all the walking that I’m going to do today. If you want to hear the little birdies sing, I’ll buy you a canary.” And turning to Eugene, he smote him on the shoulder again, and laughing with coarse laziness, said:
“You know me, kid…. You know how I like exercise, don’t you?”
“Well, then, if we can’t go along to hear the little birdies sing to Mr.
