ool, Cezanne and his
followers. Finally he came to the greatest of the French Impressionist
painters, to Pissaro, for whom, as Miss Van Tuyn knew, he had an
admiration which amounted almost to a cult.

"He's a glorious fellow, isn't he?" he said in his loud bass voice to
Arabian. "You know his 'Pont Neuf,' of course?"

He did not wait for an answer, but drove on with immense energy, puffing
away at his cigar and turning his small, keen eyes swiftly from Arabian
to Miss Van Tuyn and back again. The talk, which was now a monologue,
fed by frequent draughts of the excellent whisky, included a
dissertation on Pissaro's oil paintings, his water-colours, his
etchings and lithographs, his pupils, Cezanne, Van Gogh and Gauguin, his
friendships, his troubles, and finally a paean on his desperate love of
work, which was evidently shared by the speaker.

"Work--it's _the_ thing in life!" roared Garstin. "It's the great
consolation for all the damnableness of the human existence. Work first
and the love of women second!"

"Thank you very much for your chivalry, Dick," said Miss Van Tuyn,
sending one of her most charming blue glances to the living bronze, who
returned it, almost eagerly, she thought.

"And the love of women betrays," continued Garstin. "But work never lets
you down."

He flung out his right arm and quoted sonorously from Pissaro: "I
paint portraits because doing it helps me to live!" he almost shouted.
"Another cigar!" He turned to Arabian.

"Thank you. They are beauties and not too strong."

"You've got a damned strong constitution if you can say that. You have
been like me; you have fortified it by work."

"I fear not," he said with a smile. "I have been a flaneur, an idler.
It has been my great misfortune to have enough money for what I want
without working."

"Like poor me!" said Miss Van Tuyn, feeling suddenly relieved.

"I pity you both!" said Garstin.

And he branched away to literature, to music, to sculpture. Lowering his
big voice suddenly he spoke of the bronzes of the Naples Museum, half
shutting his eyes till they were two narrow slits, and looking intently
at Arabian.

"You have the throat of one of those bronzes," he said bluntly, "and
should never wear that cursed abomination, a starched linen collar."

"What is one to do in London?" murmured Arabian, suddenly stretching his
brown throat and lifting his strong chin.

"Show it something worth looking at," said Garstin.

And he ret