I’m fond of women. As a matter of fact I’m a great deal more at ease with women than I am with men. Because I’ve cultivated them, I suppose. You see, it’s like this with me. I’ve always had enough money to live on and the consequence is I have never had to mix with people more than I wished. And I’ve equally always had—well, I suppose you might call it a passion—for painting. Painting is far and away the most important thing in life—as I see it. But—my work’s my own affair. It’s the separate compartment which is me. No strangers allowed in. I haven’t the smallest desire to explain what it is I’m after—or to hear other men. If people like my work I’m pleased. If they don’t—well, if I was a shrugging person, I’d shrug. This sounds arrogant. It isn’t; I know my limitations. But the truth about oneself always sounds arrogant, as no doubt you’ve observed. But women—well, I can only speak for myself—I find the presence of women, the consciousness of women, an absolute necessity. I know they are considered a distraction, that the very Big Pots seal themselves in their hives to keep away. All I can say is work without women would be to me like dancing without music or food without wine or a sailing boat without a breeze. They just give me that ... what is it? Stimulus is not enough; inspiration is far too much. That—well, if I knew what it is, I should have solved a bigger problem than my own! And problems aren’t in my line. I expected a mob at my Private View, and I got it, too.... What I hadn’t reckoned on was that there would be no men. It was one thing to ask a painter fellow to knock you up something to the tune of fifty guineas or so, but it was quite another to make an ass of yourself staring. The Port Willin men would as soon have gazed into shops. True, when you came to Europe, you visited the galleries, but then you shop-gazed too. It didn’t matter what you did in Europe. You could walk about for a week without being recognized. So there were little Field and I absolutely alone among all that loveliness; it frightened him out of his life, but I didn’t mind, I thought it rather fun, especially as the sightseers didn’t hesitate to find my pictures amusing. I’m by no means an out-and-out modern, as they say; people like violins and landscapes of telegraph poles leave me cold. But Port Willin is still trying to swallow Rossetti, and Hope by Watts is looked upon as very advanced. It was natural my pictures should surprise them. The fat old Lady Mayoress became quite hysterical. She drew me over to one drawing, she patted my arm with her fan. “I don’t wonder you drew her slipping out,” she gurgled. “And how depressed she looks! The poor dear never could have sat down in it. It’s much too small. There ought to be a little cake of Pear’s Soap on the floor.” And overcome by her own joke, she flopped on the little double bench that ran down the middle of the room, and even her fan seemed to laugh.