But there won't be any
time for your little pictures and statues. You'll have to deal with the
real men, and they'll lose their glamour. That's the thing about
business--it's death to sentimentality."
Carnac flushed with indignation. "So you think Titian and Velasquez and
Goyot and El Greco and Watteau and Van Dyck and Rembrandt and all the
rest were sentimentalists, do you? The biggest men in the world worship
them. You aren't just to the greatest intellects. I suppose Shakespeare
was a sentimentalist!"
The old man laughed and tapped his son on the shoulder.
"Don't get excited, Carnac. I'd rather you ran my business well, than be
Titian or Rembrandt, whoever they were. If you do this job well, I'll
think there's a good chance of our working together."
Carnac nodded, but the thought that he could not paint or sculp when he
was on this work vexed him, and he only set his teeth to see it through.
"All right, we'll see," he said, and his father went away.
Then Carnac's time of work and trial began. He was familiar with the
routine of the business, he had adaptability, he was a quick worker, and
for a fortnight things went swimmingly. There was elation in doing work
not his regular job, and he knew the eyes of the commercial and river
world were on him.
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