“That is right; gird, if you want to. You are a Philistine, and you can’t help it, I suppose. Just the same, art is the real reality, and your petty business affairs are merely the playthings of life. If I could put on canvas the faintest impression, the merest foreshadowing of what you can see over there, every other accomplishment or enjoyment in the world would seem little by comparison.” “There you go again,” said Antrim. “Now I like pretty things as well as anybody, but when you try to make me believe that the painting of them is the chief end of man--or of woman, for that matter--why, it’s like--” He searched for a sufficiently strong simile, and not finding one, ended rather irrelevantly. “Between you and Brant, I have a hard time of it trying to keep my feet on the everyday earth.” Isabel ignored the tirade and went off at a tangent, as was her custom with Antrim. “Mr. Brant is a college graduate, isn’t he?” she asked. “Yes, I believe so. What of it?” demanded Antrim, who was so wholly imbued with the afflatus of business as to think small of scholarly attainments. “Nothing; only I was thinking how much a college man has to be thankful for.” “I don’t see your point,” Antrim objected. “Take Brant, for instance; how is he any better off than the rest of us?” “The mere fact that you can ask such a question is its best answer,” replied Isabel pertly. “You are a specialist; you have lived in a business rut until you can’t see out over the edges. You know that rut well enough, I suppose, but you would be utterly helpless if you should ever happen to be dragged out of it.” “I don’t mean to be dragged out of it. A rut is a good thing when you come to know it well. Furthermore, I never saw the time when I was as helpless as the average college graduate.” “That is nonsense,” said Isabel sweetly. “And, besides, it isn’t original nonsense; you have had it said for you by every self-made man the world ever saw. The college man has this advantage in your own particular field: he can usually take hold of things where other people leave off. That isn’t mine; it’s father’s. But I agree with him.” It was Antrim’s turn to scoff. “I don’t believe that. I have seen too many of them shoved into railway positions that they couldn’t hold down. There was Pollard, on the west end--given a division when he didn’t know the difference between a mogul and a switch engine. Nice mess he made of it before he got through.” “That may be; but at the same time Mr. Pollard had probably forgotten more things than most railway men ever know. Now, there is Mr. Brant; he doesn’t ever have to talk ‘shop.’ He knows books, and art, and penology, and a hundred other things.” Whereat Antrim lost patience, as who would not? “Brant be hanged!” he exclaimed wrathfully. “I am sick and tired of having him held up to me as an example. I wish I had never brought him here!”