No great one, mother.

Perhaps, lately, I have developed--recognised--become aware of the sombre part of life--become sensitive to it--to unhappiness in others--and have cared more--" "You speak like a man who has suffered." "But I haven't, mother," he insisted.

"Of course, every painter worries.
I did last winter--last winter--" He hesitated, conscious that last winter--on the snowy threshold of the new year--sorrow and pain and happiness and pity had, in an instant, assumed for him a significance totally new.
"Mother," he said slowly, "if I have changed it is only in a better understanding of the world and those who live in it.

I have cared very little about people; I seem to have come to care more, lately.

What they did, what they thought, hoped, desired, endured, suffered, interested me little except as it concerned my work.