A harsh voice pronounced his name; old Mr.Tappan extended a dry hand and bored him through with eyes like holes burnt in a blanket.
"And do you still cultiwate the fine arts, young man ?" he inquired, as sternly as though he privately suspected Duane of maltreating them.
Duane shook hands with him.
"The school of the indiwidool," continued Mr.Tappan, "is what artists need.

Woo the muses in solitude; cultiwate 'em in isolation.

Didn't Benjamin West live out in the backwoods?
And I guess he managed to make good without raising hell in the Eekole di Boze Arts with a lot of dissipated wagabonds at his elbow, inculcating immoral precepts and wasting his time and his father's money." And he looked very hard at Duane, who winced, but agreed with him solemnly.
Geraldine, on the edge of a circle of newly arrived guests, leaned over and whispered mischievously: "Is that what _you_ did at the Ecole des Beaux Arts?
Did you behave like all that or did you cultivate the indiwidool ?" He shook hands again, solemnly, with Mr.Tappan, stepped back, and joined her.
"Where on earth have you been hiding ?" she inquired.
"You said that if I carved certain cabalistic signs on the big beech-tree you would presently appear to me in a pink cloud--you faithless little wretch!" "How could I?
Three motor-loads arrived from Iron Hill before I was half dressed, and ever since I've been doing my traditional duty; and," in a lower voice, "I was perfectly crazy to go to the beech-tree all the time.

Did you wait long, you poor boy ?" "Man is born to wait.

I came back just now to find you....