“Since this morning, if you like. The ‘when’ doesn’t matter. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m wasting my existence. You’ll scoff, of course, but I know I have genius--not talent, mind, but genius. There’s no use of making any bones about it, or pretending false modesty: if a man is a genius, he knows it. Very well, then, why not say so?” “I see no reason against it.” “Quite so. Now, Haldiman, how much money do you make in a year?” “You mean, how little?” “Put it any way you like. Name the figure.” “What’s that got to do with your genius?” “Never you mind. What’s the amount?” “Now, Barney, if you’re cooking up some new kind of financial insult, I give you fair warning I won’t stand it.” Barney had gulped down his stimulant, and now paced up and down the room, clearing a track for himself by kicking things out of the way. Haldiman sat in a deep armchair, his legs stretched out, and his hands in his pockets, watching his friend’s energetic march to and fro. “The artistic profession,” cried the pedestrian, “has been held up to the scorn of the world since painting began. Read any novel, and you will see that, if the heroine is to make a doocedly bad marriage, she invariably falls in love with an artist--invariably.” “Well, she generally marries us.” “Yes, and lives in misery ever after.” “Oh, we’re generous, and share it with her.” “You see what I mean. The artist is held up to contempt, and all respectable people in the book are aghast at the girl’s choice. Now, why is this?” “Ask me a harder one. It is because fiction is notoriously untrue to life. The wives of the Royal Academy live in a splendour and luxury undreamed of by the ordinary lady of title.” “Nothing of the sort. It’s because the artists don’t business-manage themselves. They have no commercial sense. Therefore they are poor. Now, if a man invents a soap, what does he do?” “Washes himself.” “He advertises it. He becomes rich. Why, then, if a man writes a great book, should he not advertise himself and his book in every way that is open to him?” “I believe he does, Barney. Where have you been living this while back to be so ignorant of the approved modern methods in art and literature?” “Isn’t a great picture of more value to the world than a much-advertised soap?” “Well, if you ask me, I should say, no. I’d back the soap as a civilizer against the Louvre any day.” Barney stopped in his walk, raised his arms above his head, and let them drop heavily to his sides. “I haven’t a friend in the world!” he cried, in tragic tones. “Not one--not one!” “Barney, this conversation is bewildering. What are you driving at, anyhow? Art, soap, literature, advertising, friendship, marriage--what’s wrong? Who is the woman?” “Don’t talk to me about women! I hate them!” “I thought you were most successful in that line. I believe I have your own authority for the statement.”