in fluent French. Thapoulos muttered comments in modern Greek. And the
Turkish refugee from Smyrna quoted again and again the words of praise
from Pierre Loti, which had made of him a moral wreck, a nuisance to all
who came into contact with him, a mere prancing megalomaniac.

Miss Van Tuyn did not join in the carnival of praises and condemnations.
She had suddenly recovered her mental balance. Her native irony was
roused from its sleep. She was once more the cool, self-possessed and
beautiful girl from whose violet eyes satire looked out on all those
about her.

"Let them all make fools of themselves for my benefit," was her
comfortable thought as she listened to the chatter of tongues.

Even Garstin was being thoroughly absurd, although his adherents stood
round catching his vociferations as if they were so many precious
jewels.

"The most ridiculous human beings in the world at certain moments
are those who work in the arts," was Miss Van Tuyn's mental comment.
"Painters, poets, composers, novelists! All these people are living in
blinkers. They can't see the wide world. They can only see studies and
studios."

She wished she had Craven with her to share in her silent irony. At that
moment she felt some of the very common conceit of the rich dilettante,
who tastes but who never creates, for whom indeed most of the creation
is arduously accomplished.

"They sweat for me, exhaust themselves for me, tear each other to pieces
for me! If I were not here, if the world contained no such products
as Beryl Van Tuyn and her like, female and male, what would all the
Garstins, and Jenningses and Smiths and Enid Blunts do?"

And she felt superior in her incapacity to create because of her
capacity to judge. Wrongly she might, and probably did, judge, but she
and her like judged, spent much of their lives in eagerly judging. And
the poor creators, whatever they might say, whatever airs they
might give themselves, toiled to gain the favourable judgment of the
innumerable Beryl Van Tuyns.

Closing time put an end at last to the fracas of tongues. Even geniuses
must be driven forth from the electric light to the stars, however
unwilling to go into a healthy atmosphere.

There was a general movement. Miss Van Tuyn put on her hat and fur
coat, the latter with the assistance of Jennings. Garstin slipped into
a yellow and brown ulster, and jammed a soft hat on to his head with its
thick tangle of hair. He lit another cigar and