maining tenth only holding its own against them by dint of
extraordinary excellence! Our mistuned and unplayable organs and
pianofortes replaced by harmonious instruments, as manageable as
barrel organs! Works of fiction superseded by interesting company
and conversation, and made obsolete by the human mind outgrowing the
childishness that delights in the tales told by grownup children such as
novelists and their like! An end to the silly confusion, under the one
name of Art, of the tomfoolery and make-believe of our play-hours with
the higher methods of teaching men to know themselves! Every artist an
amateur, and a consequent return to the healthy old disposition to look
on every man who makes art a means of money-getting as a vagabond not to
be entertained as an equal by honest men!"

"In which case artists will starve, and there will be no more art."

"Sir," said Trefusis, excited by the word, "I, as a Socialist, can tell
you that starvation is now impossible, except where, as in England,
masterless men are forcibly prevented from producing the food they
need. And you, as an artist, can tell me that at present great artists
invariably do starve, except when they are kept alive by charity,
private fortune, or some drudgery which hinders them in the pursuit of
their vocation."

"Oh!" said Erskine. "Then Socialists have some little sympathy with
artists after all."

"I fear," said Trefusis, repressing himself and speaking quietly again,
"that when a Socialist hears of a hundred pounds paid for a drawing
which Andrea del Sarto was glad to sell for tenpence, his heart is not
wrung with pity for the artist's imaginary loss as that of a modern
capitalist is. Yet that is the only way nowadays of enlisting sympathy
for the old masters. Frightful disability, to be out of the reach of
the dearest market when you want to sell your drawings! But," he added,
giving himself a shake, and turning round gaily, "I did not come here
to talk shop. So--pending the deluge--let us enjoy ourselves after our
manner."

"No," said Jane. "Please go on about Art. It's such a relief to hear
anyone talking sensibly about it. I hate etching. It makes your eyes
sore--at least the acid gets into Sir Charles's, and the difference
between the first and second states is nothing but imagination, except
that the last state is worse than the--here's luncheon!"

They went downstairs then. Trefusis sat between Agatha and Lady Brandon,
to whom he addre