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
over them, suddenly brightened visibly. On their faces appeared the look
of inward speculation, and then a ray of light.
Little Towsey, who from his arrival had sulked, fretted, and fumed,
jumped up energetically and flung away his third cigar.
"Here, where are you going?" said Rankin in protest.
"Over to the studio," said Towsey, quite unconsciously.
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