"That," said Wilmot with the faith of a fanatic in his god, "is because
you've never really cared."

"And besides," she said, "I have what I am pleased to call my career.
And 'Down to Gehenna and up to the throne he travels fastest who
travels alone.'"

"True," said Wilmot, "he arrives soonest, but all tired out, and the
house is empty, and there are no children in it, and only paid servants.
And it may be very showy to live for fame, but it isn't good enough.
When we turned that bust you began into mud pies, we did a wise thing.
We amused ourselves, and we said the last word on art as opposed to
life. The best thing in this world is to _be_ children and to _have_
children--and the next best thing is nowhere."

"Would you," said Barbara, and her eyes twinkled a little, "really
rather be a parent than a Praxiteles?"

"It looks to me," said Wilmot sadly, "sometimes--in moments of
despondency--as if the honorable gentleman was never going to be either.
But then again," and he spoke in a strong voice, "I believe in my heart
that after you've done handling the book of life and admiring the
binding, you'll open it at chapter one, and read, '_Young
Wilmot_ Allen--'"

"Lunch-time," said Barbara, and she rose from the comfortable chair with
sharp decision. "I vote for a thick steak, being famished. Is my hair
all mussy?"