"It was always my idea for him."
"Well, it's no good--even as an idea," he told her.
"Doctors are like parsons--they can't keep up with the times.
The age is outgrowing them. Only the fakirs in either
profession get anything out of it, nowadays. It's all mystery
and sleight-of-hand and the confidence trick--medicine
is--and if you haven't got just the right twist of the wrist,
you're not in it. But an artist stands on his merits.
There is his work--done by his own hands. It speaks
for itself. There's no deception--it's easy enough to tell
whether it's good or bad. If the pictures are good,
people buy them. If they're bad, people don't buy them.
Of course, it won't matter to Alfred, financially speaking,
whether his pictures sell well or not. But probably he'd
give it up, if he didn't make a hit of it.
"I don't know that there's any crying need that he should
do anything. My own idea for him, perhaps, would be the Army,
but I wouldn't dream of forcing it on him against his will.
I had a bitter enough dose of that, myself, with father.
I'd try to guide a youngster, yes, and perhaps argue
with him, if I thought he was making a jack of
himself--but I wouldn't dictate. If Alfred thinks he
wants to be an artist, in God's name let him go ahead.
It can be made a gentlemanly trade--and the main thing
is that he should be a gentleman.
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