But if he wanted to be an artist, why didn't he say so? asked Mrs. Strickland at last. "I should have thought I was the last person to be unsympathetic to—to aspirations of that kind."
Mrs. MacAndrew tightened her lips. I imagine that she had never looked with approval on her sister's leaning towards persons who cultivated the arts. She spoke of "culchaw" derisively.
After all, if he had any talent I should be the first to encourage it. I wouldn't have minded sacrifices. I'd much rather be married to a painter than to a stockbroker. If it weren't for the children, I wouldn't mind anything. I could be just as happy in a shabby studio in Chelsea as in this flat.
My dear, I have no patience with you, cried Mrs. MacAndrew. "You don't mean to say you believe a word of this nonsense?"
“親愛的,我可真要生你的氣了,”麥克安德魯太太叫喊起來,“看你的意思,這些鬼話你真相信了?”
But I think it's true, I put in mildly.
“可我認為這是真實情況,”我婉轉地表示自己的意見說。
She looked at me with good-humoured contempt.
她又好氣又好笑地看了我一眼。
A man doesn't throw up his business and leave his wife and children at the age of forty to become a painter unless there's a woman in it. I suppose he met one of your—artistic friends, and she's turned his head.
I wish you had gone over, I replied, somewhat tartly. "You'd have seen that every one of your suppositions was wrong. He's not at a smart hotel. He's living in one tiny room in the most squalid way. If he's left his home, it's not to live a gay life. He's got hardly any money."