ting to turn sometimes from the
beliefs of the Blackfellow to the philosophical preoccupations of the
undergraduate. But you can't expect an ordinary adult man, like myself,
to be much moved by the story of his spiritual troubles. And after all,
even in England, even in Germany and Russia, there are more adults than
adolescents. As for the artist, he is preoccupied with problems that
are so utterly unlike those of the ordinary adult man--problems of pure
aesthetics which don't so much as present themselves to people like
myself--that a description of his mental processes is as boring to the
ordinary reader as a piece of pure mathematics. A serious book about
artists regarded as artists is unreadable; and a book about artists
regarded as lovers, husbands, dipsomaniacs, heroes, and the like is
really not worth writing again. Jean-Christophe is the stock artist of
literature, just as Professor Radium of 'Comic Cuts' is its stock man of
science."

"I'm sorry to hear I'm as uninteresting as all that," said Gombauld.

"Not at all, my dear Gombauld," Mr. Scogan hastened to explain. "As a
lover or a dipsomaniac, I've no doubt of your being a most fascinating
specimen. But as a combiner of forms, you must honestly admit it, you're
a bore."

"I entirely disagree with you," exclaimed Mary. She was somehow always
out of breath when she talked. And her speech was punctuated by little
gasps. "I've known a great many artists, and I've always found their
mentality very interesting. Especially in Paris. Tschuplitski, for
example--I saw a great deal of Tschuplitski in Paris this spring..."

"Ah, but then you're an exception, Mary, you're an exception," said Mr.
Scogan. "You are a femme superieure."

A flush of pleasure turned Mary's face into a harvest moon.

CHAPTER IV.

Denis woke up next morning to find the sun shining, the sky serene. He
decided to wear white flannel trousers--white flannel trousers and a
black jacket, with a silk shirt and his new peach-coloured tie. And
what shoes? White was the obvious choice, but there was something rather
pleasing about the notion of black patent leather. He lay in bed for
several minutes considering the problem.

Before he went down--patent leather was his final choice--he looked at
himself critically in the glass. His hair might have been more golden,
he reflected. As it was, its yellowness had the hint of a greenish tinge
in it. But his forehead was good. His forehead made up in