"yes; they're so essentially decorative.""that is one of my profoundest convictions," said mr.van busche taylor. "great art is always decorative."their eyes rested on a nude woman suckling a baby, while a girl was kneeling by their side holding out a flower to the indifferent child.looking over them was a wrinkled, scraggy hag.it was strickland's version of the holy family.i suspected that for the figures had sat his household above taravao, and the woman and the baby were ata and his first son.i asked myself if mrs.strickland had any inkling of the facts.
the conversation proceeded, and i marvelled at the tact with which mr.van busche taylor avoided all subjects that might have been in the least embarrassing, and at the ingenuity with which mrs.strickland, without saying a word that was untrue, insinuated that her relations with her husband had always been perfect.at last mr.van busche taylor rose to go.holding his hostess' hand, he made her a graceful, though perhaps too elaborate, speech of thanks, and left us.
"i hope he didn't bore you," she said, when the door closed behind him."of course it's a nuisance sometimes, but i feel it's only right to give people any information i can about charlie.there's a certain responsibility about having been the wife of a genius."she looked at me with those pleasant eyes of hers, which had remained as candid and as sympathetic as they had been more than twenty years before. i wondered if she was making a fool of me.
"of course you've given up your business," i said.
"oh, yes," she answered airily."i ran it more by way of a hobby than for any other reason, and my children persuaded me to sell it.they thought i was overtaxing my strength."i saw that mrs.strickland had forgotten that she had ever done anything so disgraceful as to work for her living.she had the true instinct of the nice woman that it is only really decent for her to live on other people's money.