ut is only the precise
amount of finish which is appropriate to the particular work. Musgrave
would hold, in the case of Flaubert, that he was, in his novels, trying
to give to the cathedral the finish of the gem, and polishing a colossal
statue as though it were a tiny statuette."

"Yes," said Herries mournfully, "I suppose that is right; though when
I read of Flaubert spending hours of torture in the search for a single
epithet, I do not feel that the sacrifice was made in vain if only the
result was achieved."

"But I," said Musgrave, "grudge the time so spent. I would rather have
more less-finished work than little exquisite work--though I suppose
that we shall come to the latter sometime, when the treasures of art
have accumulated even more hopelessly than now, and when nothing but
perfect work will have a chance of recognition. Then perhaps a man
will spend thirty years in writing a short story, and twenty more in
polishing it! But at present there is much that is unsaid which may
well be said, and I confess that I do not hanker after this careful and
troubled work. It reminds me of the terrible story of the Chinaman who
spent fifty years in painting a vase which cracked in the furnace. It
seems to me like the worst kind of waste."

"And I, on the other hand," said Herries gravely, "think that such a
life is almost as noble a one as I can well conceive."

His words sounded to me like a kind of pontifical blessing pronounced
at the end of a liturgical service; and, dinner now being over, we
adjourned to the library. Then Musgrave entertained us with an
account of a squabble he had lately had with a certain editor, who had
commissioned him to write a set of papers on literary subjects, and then
had objected to his treatment. Musgrave had trailed his coat before
the unhappy man, laid traps for him by dint of asking him ingenuous
questions, had written an article elaborately constructed to parody
derisively the editor's point of view, had meekly submitted it as one
of the series, and then, when the harried wretch again objected, had
confronted him with illustrative extracts from his own letters. It was a
mirthful if not a wholly good-natured performance. Herries had listened
with ill-concealed disgust, and excused himself at the end of the
recital on the plea of work.

As the door closed behind him, Musgrave said with a wink, "I am afraid
my story has rather disgusted our young transcendentalist. He has no
pleas