When Herkimer had finished, he shrugged his shoulders, gave a short
laugh, and, glancing at the clock, went off in his curt, purposeful
manner.

"Well, by Jove!" said Steingall, recovering first from the spell of the
story, "doesn't that prove exactly what I said? They're jealous, they're
all jealous, I tell you, jealous of everything you do. All they want us
to do is to adore them. By Jove! Herkimer's right. Rantoul was the
biggest of us all. She murdered him just as much as though she had put a
knife in him."

"She did it on purpose," said De Gollyer. "There was nothing childlike
about her, either. On the contrary, I consider her a clever, a
devilishly clever woman."

"Of course she did. They're all clever, damn them!" said Steingall,
explosively. "Now, what do you say, Quinny? I say that an artist who
marries might just as well tie a rope around his neck and present it to
his wife and have it over."

"On the contrary," said Quinny, with a sudden inspiration reorganizing
his whole battle front, "every artist should marry. The only danger is
that he may marry happily."

"What?" cried Steingall. "But you said--"

"My dear boy, I have germinated some new ideas," said Quinny,
unconcerned. "The story has a moral,--I detest morals,--but this has
one. An artist should always marry unhappily, and do you know why?