You're young, you're impressionable, you won't mind my saying that
you're not built for a stoic, and hang it, they'll coddle you,
they'll enervate you, they'll sentimentalize you, they'll make a
Mungold of you!"
"Ah, poor Mungold," Stanwell laughed. "If he lived the life of an
anchorite he couldn't help painting pictures that would please Mrs.
Millington."
"Whereas you could," Kate interjected, raising her head from the
ironing-board where, Sphinx-like, magnificent, she swung a splendid
arm above her brother's shirts.
"Oh, well, perhaps I shan't please her; perhaps I shall elevate her
taste."
Caspar directed a groan to his sister. "That's what they all think
at first--Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came. But inside the Dark
Tower there's the Venusberg. Oh, I don't mean that you'll be taken
with truffles and plush footmen, like Mungold. But praise, my poor
Ned--praise is a deadly drug! It's the absinthe of the artist--and
they'll stupefy you with it. You'll wallow in the mire of success.
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