It was a good diagnosis. And his irritation had, for him, a most unusual
cause. Chorus-girls, principals, owners, authors, costumers, were
frequently the objects of his exasperated dissatisfaction. But to-night
the person he was out of all patience with was himself. He couldn't make
up his mind what he wanted to do. Or rather, knowing what he wanted to
do, he couldn't make up his mind to do it. It was this indecision of his
that had produced the silence while he and Rose had stood in the
entrance to Lessing's store. The only resolution he had come to there
had been not to allow her to say good night to him and walk away. But
now that she was striding along beside him, he couldn't make up his mind
what to say to her.
A more self-conscious man would have forgiven himself his indecision
from recognizing the real complexities of the case. He was, to begin
with, an artist--almost a great artist. And a universal characteristic
of such is a complete detachment from the materials in which they
work--a sort of remorselessness in the use of anything that can
contribute to their complete expression.
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