Murder in Any Degree

d, having lunched late, had bored themselves separately to their limits over the periodicals until, preferri

on of black, gave a touch of Continental elegance to his cropped beard and colonel's mustaches, watched

's protective reverie, spoke in desultory periods, addressing himself quest

g one leg behind. He was an American critic who was busily engaged in discovering the talents of unrecognized geniuses of the European provinces. Wh

ican art. I can't afford to. I

of the club, Rankin, the architect, arrived with Stibo, the fashionable painter of fashionable women, who brought with him t

I'm not in the club-any

his ears, gave him the appearance of one who had floundered up out of his clothes for the third and last time. He came forward, frowne

g the other, naturally. As soon as the third arrives they begin carving up another; only thing they can agree on, see? S

. They can't help it. It's the one thing you can't resist. You begin it when you're poor to save the expense of a servant, and you keep it up when you succeed to have some one over you to make you work. You belong p

y, and looked at De Gollyer over their mustaches with a lingeri

"you remain children afraid of the dark-afraid of being alone. Solitude frightens you. You lack the quality of

ised thumb and first finger in a gingerly loop, ordered a dash of sherry and winked

e for a topic of such possibilities. "You understand nothing of psychology. An artist is a mul

t-inspiration," said

muscular force far beyond his accredited strength. The race of geniuses, little and big, are constantly seeking this outward force to hypnotize them into a supreme intellectual effort. Talent does not understand such a process; it is mechanical, unvarying, chop-chop, day in and day

said

ve sees only one face, hears only one voice; at the base of the brain only one thought is constantly drumming. Physical

professional juryman, wagged his head in agreement with each speaker and w

owsey, gruffly, who pronounced the

lation a woman plays to the artist. It is not the woman he seeks, but the hypnotic influenc

he marries,"

ce himself. "But here is the great distinction: to be an inspiration, a woman should always represent to the artist a form of the

tentiously, "is that one woman cannot m

asually with an air of spontaneity, twisting the old Spanish ring on his bony

e tragedy of life, not the tragedy of art, two very different things. An artist has need of ten, fifteen, twenty

d De Gollyer. "Has

dy sits for portrait, painter takes up his brushes, arranges his palette, seeks inspiration,-what is below the surface?-something intangible to divine, seize, and affix to his canvas. He seeks to know the soul; he seeks how? As

had not ceased twining his m

What of the wife?" sa

omes a man: my wife and bonjour. He returns home, takes off the duster of his illusion, cleans the palette of old memories, washes away his vow

," said Steingall, with enthusiasm. "T

said Towsey with a sh

s. She is one who understands. Her husband adores her, and he is in love with a woman a month. When he gets in too deep, re

d Steingall, dro

lly?" sa

sister?"

as the look, De Gollyer perceived it, and smilingly regi

! That's it! There you have it! She's jealous because she can't understand it, because it takes you away from her, because she can't share it. That's what's terrible about marriage-no liberty, no individualism, no seclusion, having to account every night for your actions, for your thoughts, for the things you dream-ah, the dreams! The Chin

d his head in unequivocal assent, Stibo smiled so as to show

s, wo

e counted on the fingers when the word genius was pronounced. Mentally and physically a German, he spoke English with a French accent. His hair was cropped en brosse, and in his brown Japanese face only the eyes, staccato, furtive, and drunk with curiosity, could b

oulder of Steingall, with whom and Quinny he had

olian wives," said De Gollyer, who had written two favorable articles on Herkimer, "

id Herkimer, wit

e Gollyer; "we always abolish

said Herkimer, with the shar

ought to him some abrupt coincidence. They waited with an

rkimer, rolling a cigarette

ntoul?" s

ntoul, who was in the Qua

s," said Rankin.

ev

" said Quinny;

imer, lighting his cigarette

r something," said

ngall as he slapped the tabl

d Quinny, i

erkimer. "Rantoul was the biggest man of us all. It's