He came forward, frowned at the
group, scowled at the negative distractions of the reading-room, and
finally dragged over his chair just as Quinny was saying:
"Queer thing--ever notice it?--two artists sit down together, each
begins talking of what he's doing--to avoid complimenting the other,
naturally. As soon as the third arrives they begin carving up another;
only thing they can agree on, see? Soon as you get four or more of the
species together, conversation always comes around to marriage. Ever
notice that, eh?"
"My dear fellow," said De Gollyer, from the intolerant point of view of
a bachelor, "that is because marriage is your one common affliction.
Artists, musicians, all the lower order of the intellect, marry. They
must. They can't help it. It's the one thing you can't resist. You begin
it when you're poor to save the expense of a servant, and you keep it up
when you succeed to have some one over you to make you work. You belong
psychologically to the intellectually dependent classes, the
clinging-vine family, the masculine parasites; and as you can't help
being married, you are always damning it, holding it responsible for all
your failures.
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