No; Morland must realise he's living
in the twentieth century, and has to earn his bread and butter. Art
doesn't pay, and that's the fact! Have it as a hobby if you wish, but
don't depend upon it!"
So Morland, who, like many young fellows of artistic calibre, had a
general affection for the muses but no very marked vocation for anything,
had been pitchforked into engineering, and was making quite tolerable
progress, and would possibly support himself later on, but always with
the feeling that life was commonplace and unromantic, and that a splendid
vision had been somewhere just round the corner, only unfortunately
missed. He allowed his artistic temperament to run loose during the
holidays. He would go up to Bella Vista and play for hours on the
Macleods' new grand piano, improvising beautiful airs, and sending Fay
into raptures.
"Why don't you write them down right away?" she demanded.
"What's the use? No one would publish them if I did. The publishers are
fed up with young composers wanting a hearing.
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