“I like the shape of your head,” he found himself saying in reply to the query in her eyes, “it is the kind of vessel which is never empty. The square of your chin, too, is so very right. One seldom sees the two together.” She met the critical survey with equal candour. “I have been liking your head,” she said, “but not the chin. Its—” She drew a slanting line in the air. “I know,” he nodded; “but it’s not significant.” “I meant that—insignificant.” Wynne was not at his best when humour turned against him. His smile and his frown struck a balance. “I could quote the names of a dozen brilliant men who did not carry their strength or wit in the lower half of their faces, and illustrate my instances at the National Portrait Gallery.” “Are you brilliant?” There was no barb to the question. “It pleases me to think so.” “One wonders, then, why you are doing this little jobbery in a theatre.” “Yes, that’s reasonable enough. I wonder, too, sometimes. I suppose I was hungry when I took the engagement.” “This is not your real work, then?” “I hardly know what my real work is, but it is not in the market. In theory real work never should be in the market.” “‘And no one shall work for money And no one shall work for fame,’” quoted Eve. “Spare me from Kipling. It is so disheartening to find one’s views supported by quotations.” “I’m not so advanced as that. I’m rather proud of quotations—I look on them as medals for reading.” He made an intolerant gesture. “But no sane persons show their medals.” “While I’m young I had rather not be altogether sane.” “Good! I take back sanity. It’s the worst asset an artist can possess.” She looked at him with a faint, intricate smile. “You are easy to catch out,” she said. “Possibly. I don’t aspire to be a cricketer. Indeed, cricket stands for all I dislike most. Cricket is an Englishman’s notion of the proper conduct of life—a game with rules. If he resists seducing a friend’s wife it is because to do so is not cricket.” “Do you favour his doing so?” “Not I—but it depends on the mood and the man, and the attraction. I simply do not admit the existence of cricket in these matters.” “Do you know,” said Eve, “you seem to me to be expressing ideas and not thoughts. Tell me, what is your real work?” “I assume that one day I shall know, but I don’t know yet. If I were to say painting—writing—talking—acting—I should be equally right. I have searched the dictionaries in vain to find a word to describe myself. The verb ‘to lead’ is the nearest approach. I think, by nature, I am the centre of a circle—a circle that is even widening. Sounds absurd, doesn’t it?—to lead from the centre of a circle.”