his real mind
get mixed up together, he ceases to be an artist. That is why Swinburne
has gone off so much. If you want to write really fine erotic poetry,
you must live an absolutely rigid and entirely respectable life. The
'Laus Veneris' could only have been produced by a man who had a
Nonconformist conscience. I am certain that Mrs. Humphrey Ward is the
most strictly orthodox Christian whom we have. Otherwise, her books
against the accepted Christianity could never have brought her in so
many thousands of pounds. I never read her, of course. Life is far too
long and lovely for that sort of thing; but a bishop once told me that
she was a great artist, and that if she had a sense of gravity, she
would rival George Eliot. Dickens had probably no sense of humour. That
is why he makes second-rate people die of laughing. Oscar Wilde was
utterly mistaken when he wrote the 'Picture of Dorian Gray.' After
Dorian's act of cruelty, the picture ought to have grown more sweet,
more saintly, more angelic in expression."

"I never read that book."

"Then you have gained a great deal. Poor Oscar! He is terribly truthful.
He reminds me so much of George Washington."

"Shall we walk round the garden if you have really finished tea?" said
Lady Locke, rising. "What a delicious afternoon it is, so quiet, so
detached from the rest of the year, as Mr. Amarinth might say. I am glad
to be away from London. It is only habit that makes London endurable."

"But surely habit makes nothing endurable. Otherwise we should like
politics, and get accustomed to the presence of solicitors in Society."

"I do like politics," Lady Locke said, laughing. "How beautiful these
roses are! Ah, there is Tommy. You don't know my little boy, do you?"
Tommy, in fact, now came bounding towards them along a rose alley. His
cheeks were flushed with excitement, and, as he drew nearer, they saw
that his brown eyes were sparkling with a dimmed lustre behind a large
pair of spectacles, that were set rakishly upon his straight little
nose.

"My dear boy," exclaimed his mother, "what on earth are you doing? How
hideous you are!"

"Harry Smith has lent them to me," cried Tommy exultantly. "He says I
look splendid in them."

"That is all very fine, but Harry Smith requires them, and you don't.
His father won't like it. You must give them back, Tommy. Shake hands
with Lord Reginald Hastings. He has come to stay here."

Tommy shook hands scrutinisingly, and at once