rom an art doesn't depend upon mastering
it. I used to think it did; but it doesn't. Those who get rich need have
no skill at all as artists.'

'What need they have?'

'A certain kind of energy which men with any fondness for art possess
very seldom indeed--an earnestness in making acquaintances, and a love
for using them. They give their whole attention to the art of
dining out, after mastering a few rudimentary facts to serve up in
conversation. Now after saying that, do I seem a man likely to make a
name?'

'You seem a man likely to make a mistake.'

'What's that?'

'To give too much room to the latent feeling which is rather common
in these days among the unappreciated, that because some remarkably
successful men are fools, all remarkably unsuccessful men are geniuses.'

'Pretty subtle for a young lady,' he said slowly. 'From that remark I
should fancy you had bought experience.'

She passed over the idea. 'Do try to succeed,' she said, with wistful
thoughtfulness, leaving her eyes on him.

Springrove flushed a little at the earnestness of her words, and mused.
'Then, like Cato the Censor, I shall do what I despise, to be in the
fashion,' he said at last... 'Well, when I found all this out that I
was speaking of, what ever do you think I did? From having already
loved verse passionately, I went on to read it continually; then I went
rhyming myself. If anything on earth ruins a man for useful occupation,
and for content with reasonable success in a profession or trade, it is
the habit of writing verses on emotional subjects, which had much better
be left to die from want of nourishment.'

'Do you write poems now?' she said.

'None. Poetical days are getting past with me, according to the usual
rule. Writing rhymes is a stage people of my sort pass through, as they
pass through the stage of shaving for a beard, or thinking they are
ill-used, or saying there's nothing in the world worth living for.'

'Then the difference between a common man and a recognized poet is, that
one has been deluded, and cured of his delusion, and the other continues
deluded all his days.'

'Well, there's just enough truth in what you say, to make the remark
unbearable. However, it doesn't matter to me now that I "meditate the
thankless Muse" no longer, but....' He paused, as if endeavouring to
think what better thing he did.

Cytherea's mind ran on to the succeeding lines of the poem, and their
startling harmony with the pre