then--just at the turn!"

He spoke English with a foreign accent; his voice was rather harsh, but
his smile very kindly.

Dawney lit a cigarette.

"You painters," he said, "are better off than most of us. You can strike
out your own line. Now if I choose to treat a case out of the ordinary
way and the patient dies, I'm ruined."

"My dear Doctor--if I don't paint what the public likes, I starve; all
the same I'm going to paint in my own way; in the end I shall come out
on top."

"It pays to work in the groove, my friend, until you've made your name;
after that--do what you like, they'll lick your boots all the same."

"Ah, you don't love your work."

Dawney answered slowly: "Never so happy as when my hands are full. But I
want to make money, to get known, to have a good time, good cigars, good
wine. I hate discomfort. No, my boy, I must work it on the usual lines;
I don't like it, but I must lump it. One starts in life with some notion
of the ideal--it's gone by the board with me. I've got to shove along
until I've made my name, and then, my little man--then--"

"Then you'll be soft!"

"You pay dearly for that first period!"