“As to the kind of people that we came from,” he continued, “I can’t say how different they may be, but I should think it very likely that Horton’s people are much the same kind of people as my own—”
“His father is a Methodist minister,” the other young man quickly interposed. “He told me that.”
“Yes,” said Starwick in his quiet and inert voice—“and Horton is the rebel of the family.” His tone had not changed apparently in its quality by an atom, yet the quiet and bitter irony with which he spoke was evident.
“How did you know that?” the other youth said in a surprised tone. “Yes—that’s true. His wife told me that Ed and his father are scarcely on speaking terms—the old man prays for the salvation of Ed’s soul three times a day, because he is trying to write plays and wants to get into the theatre. Effie Horton says Ed’s father still writes Ed letters begging him to repent and mend his ways before his soul is damned for ever: she says the old man calls the theatre the Devil’s Workshop.”
“Yes,” said Starwick in his quiet and almost lifeless tone that still had curiously the cutting edge of a weary and detached sarcasm—“and Horton has bearded the Philistines in their den, hasn’t he, and given all for art?”
“Isn’t that a bit unjust? I know you don’t think very highly of Ed Horton’s ability, but, after all, the man must have had some genuine desire to create something—some real love for the theatre—or he would not have broken with his family and come here.”
“Yes. I suppose he has. Many people have that desire,” said Starwick wearily. “Do you think it is enough?”
“No, I do not. And yet I think a man who has it is better off—will have a better life, somehow—than the man who does not have it at all.”
“Do you?” Starwick answered in a dead tone. “I wish I thought so, too.”
“But don’t you, Frank? Surely it is better to have some kind of talent, however small, than none at all.”
“Would you say, then,” Starwick answered, “that it was better to have some kind of child—however puny, feeble, ugly, and diseased—as King Richard said about himself, brought into the world’scarce half made up’—than to have no child at all?”
“I would not think so. No.”
“Have you ever thought, Eugene, that the great enemy of life may not be death, but life itself?” Starwick continued. “Have you never noticed
