rang-outang in every story which he published.

Paul's immediate neighbours on the right-hand side were two earnest
young brushmen, one wearing military uniform, and the other a rational
check suit designed with much firmness. They shared a common pencil and
drank black coffee, demonstrating their ideas in line upon the marble
table-top. They evidently thought with Mr. Nevinson, that man invented
circles but the Lord created cubes. Beyond them was a lady of title who
aspired to the mantle of George Sand. In the absence of an Alfred de
Musset she had fled from her husband with a handsome actor of romantic
roles whom later she had left for an ugly violinist with a beautiful
technique. She was sipping pomegranate juice in the company of her
publisher and glancing under her lashes at a ferocious-looking ballad
writer who had just seated himself behind the next table from whence he
directed a malevolent glare upon no one in particular.

"His gentle work deserves a kinder master," said Thessaly, observing
Paul watching the melody-maker. "I have noticed, Mario, that although
there are few pressmen present, there are a number of publicists. Our
progress is merely in terminology after all. The writers who matter may
readily be recognised by their complacent air; the others, who have not
yet succeeded in mattering, by their hungry look. They have missed a
course in the banquet of life. They have failed to grasp the fact that
our artificial civilisation has made a mystery of marriage, which, veil
by veil, it is the duty of the successful novelist to disclose. If I
were a novelist I should seek my characters in the Divorce Court; if I
were a painter I should study those superstitions which have grown up
around human nudity so that the very word 'naked' has become invested
with a covert significance and must very shortly be obsolete. I
contemplate opening a new Pythagorean Institute for instruction of the
artistic young. Above the portal I shall cause to be inscribed the
following profound thought: 'Art does not pay; portrait and figure
painting do.'"

"Some portrait painters are artists," said Don.

"I agree: Velasquez for instance; and consider the treatment of the
velvet draperies in Collier's _Pomps and Vanities_ so widely popularised
by its reproduction in the Telephone Directory." He turned to Paul. "I
have noted no fewer than six novelists, Mario, engaged in outlining to
admirers projected masterpieces dealing with the war