Purely a question of chemistry. Towsey, when do you work the best?"

"How do you mean?" said Towsey, rousing himself.

"I've heard you say that you worked best when your nerves were all on
edge--night out, cucumbers, thunder-storm, or a touch of fever."

"Yes, that's so."

"Can any one work well when everything is calm?" continued Quinny,
triumphantly, to the amazement of Rankin and Steingall. "Can you work on
a clear spring day, when nothing bothers you and the first of the month
is two weeks off, eh? Of course you can't. Happiness is the enemy of the
artist. It puts to sleep the faculties. Contentment is a drug. My dear
men, an artist should always be unhappy. Perpetual state of
fermentation sets the nerves throbbing, sensitive to impressions.
Exaltation and remorse, anger and inspiration, all hodge-podge, chemical
action and reaction, all this we are blessed with when we are unhappily
married. Domestic infelicity drives us to our art; happiness makes us
neglect it. Shall I tell you what I do when everything is smooth, no
nerves, no inspiration, fat, puffy Sunday-dinner-feeling, too happy,
can't work? I go home and start a quarrel with my wife."

"And then you _can_ work," cried Steingall, roaring with laughter. "By
Jove, you _are_ immense!"

"Never better," said Quinny, who appeared like a prophet.

The four artists, who had listened to Herkimer's story in that gradual
thickening depression which the subject of matrimony always let down