The carriage was descending the road from Pozzuoli; it approached the sea-shore, where the gentle breakers were beginning to be tinged with evening light.

Cecily looked back and waved her hand.
"When You say that art is an end in itself," Miriam resumed abruptly, "you claim, I suppose, that it is a way of serving mankind ?" Mallard was learning the significance of her tones.

In this instance, he knew that the words "serving mankind" were a contemptuous use of a phrase she had heard, a phrase which represented the philosophy alien to her own.
"Indeed, I claim nothing of the kind," he replied, laughing.

"Art may, or may not, serve such a purpose; but be assured that the artist never thinks of his work in that way." "You make no claim, then, even of usefulness ?" "Most decidedly, none.

You little imagine how distasteful the word is to me in such connection." "Then how can you say you are employing your best natural powers ?" She had fallen to ingenuous surprise, and Mallard again laughed, partly at the simplicity of the question, partly because it pleased him to have brought her to such directness.
"Because," he answered, "this work gives me keener and more lasting pleasure than any other would.