stretched his legs like compasses,--and the way he grasped his
gown-wings seemed to turn him to a pair of scales. His lowering smile
embraced the room, deprecating strong expressions. "After all," he
seemed to say, "we are men of the world; we know there 's not very much
in anything. This is the modern spirit; why not give it a look in?"

"Do I understand you to say, Berryman, that you don't enjoy a spicy
book?" asked Washer with his smile; and at this question the little
fat man sniggered, blinking tempestuously, as if to say, "Nothing
pleasanter, don't you know, before a hot fire in cold weather."

Berryman paid no attention to the impertinent inquiry, continuing to dip
into his volume and walk up and down.

"I've nothing to say," he remarked, stopping before Shelton, and looking
down, as if at last aware of him, "to those who talk of being justified
through Art. I call a spade a spade."

Shelton did not answer, because he could not tell whether Berryman was
addressing him or society at large. And Berryman went on:

"Do we want to know about the feelings of a middle-class woman with a
taste for vice? Tell me the point of it. No man who was in the habit of
taking baths would choose such a subject."

"You come to the question of-ah-subjects," the voice of Trimmer genially
buzzed he had gathered his garments tight across his back--"my dear
fellow, Art, properly applied, justifies all subjects."

"For Art," squeaked Berryman, putting back his second volume and taking
down a third, "you have Homer, Cervantes, Shakespeare, Ossian; for
garbage, a number of unwashed gentlemen."

There was a laugh; Shelton glanced round at all in turn. With the
exception of Crocker, who was half asleep and smiling idiotically, they
wore, one and all, a look as if by no chance could they consider any
subject fit to move their hearts; as if, one and all, they were so
profoundly anchored on the sea of life that waves could only seem
impertinent. It may have been some glimmer in this glance of Shelton's
that brought Trimmer once more to the rescue with his compromising air.

"The French," said he, "have quite a different standard from ourselves
in literature, just as they have a different standard in regard to
honour. All this is purely artificial."

What he, meant, however, Shelton found it difficult to tell.

"Honour," said Washer, "'l'honneur, die Ehre' duelling, unfaithful
wives--"

He was clearly going to add to this, but it was