esting unfathomed depths of desolation.

"Of course it may be immensely clever, it may be something epoch-making
in the realm of art," said Sylvia Strubble to her own particular circle
of listeners, "but, on the other hand, it may be merely mad. One mustn't
pay too much attention to the commercial aspect of the case, of course,
but still, if some dealer would make a bid for that hyaena picture, or
even for some of the sketches, we should know better how to place the man
and his work."

"We may all be cursing ourselves one of these days," said Mrs. Nougat-
Jones, "for not having bought up his entire portfolio of sketches. At
the same time, when there is so much real talent going about, one does
not feel like planking down ten shillings for what looks like a bit of
whimsical oddity. Now that picture that he showed us last week, 'Sand-
grouse roosting on the Albert Memorial,' was very impressive, and of
course I could see there was good workmanship in it and breadth of
treatment; but it didn't in the least convey the Albert Memorial to me,
and Sir James Beanquest tells me that sand-grouse don't roost, they sleep
on the ground."

Whatever talent or genius the Pomeranian artist might possess, it
certainly failed to receive commercial sanction. The portfolio remained
bulky with unsold sketches, and the "Euston Siesta," as the wits of the
Nuremberg nicknamed the large canvas, was still in the market. The
outward and visible signs of financial embarrassment began to be
noticeable; the half-bottle of cheap claret at dinner-time gave way to a
small glass of lager, and this in turn was displaced by water. The one-
and-sixpenny set dinner receded from an everyday event to a Sunday
extravagance; on ordinary days the artist contented himself with a
sevenpenny omelette and some bread and cheese, and there were evenings
when he did not put in an appearance at all. On the rare occasions when
he spoke of his own affairs it was observed that he began to talk more
about Pomerania and less about the great world of art.

"It is a busy time there now with us," he said wistfully; "the schwines
are driven out into the fields after harvest, and must be looked after. I
could be helping to look after if I was there. Here it is difficult to
live; art is not appreciate."

"Why don't you go home on a visit?" some one asked tactfully.

"Ah, it cost money! There is the ship passage to Stolpmunde, and there
is money that I owe at my lodg