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?
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.
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