atmosphere, to be surrounded by beautiful things. Don't
laugh like that,--I know I'm not an artist; I couldn't paint a
picture--how could I? I haven't been taught. But I know that Art is the
only thing worth caring about. I want to cultivate my sense of beauty,
and I don't want my room to look like anybody else's."

"It certainly doesn't at present."

"Please be serious. You're not helping me one bit. Look at that pile of
things Liberty's have sent me! First of all, I want you to choose
between them. Then I want you to suggest a colour-scheme, and to tell me
the difference between Louis Quinze and Louis Quatorze (I _can't_
remember), whether it'll do to mix Queen Anne with either. And whether
would you have old oak, real old oak, or Chippendale, for the furniture?
and must I do away with the cosy corner?"

Ted felt his head going round and round. Artistic delight in Audrey's
beauty, pagan adoration of it, saintly belief in it, the first tremor of
crude unconscious passion, mingled with intense amusement, reduced him
to a state of utter bewilderment. But he had sufficient presence of mind
to take her last question first and to answer authoritatively--

"Certainly. A cosy corner is weak-minded and conventional."

"Yes, it is. I'm not in the least conventional, and I don't think I'm
weak-minded. And I want my room to express my character, to be a bit of
myself. So give me some ideas. You don't mind my asking you, do you?
You're the only artist I know."

"Am I really? And if you knew six or seven artists, what then?"

"Why, then--I should ask you all the same, of course."

Boy-like he laughed for pure pleasure, and boy-like he tried to
dissemble his emotion, and did her bidding under a faint show of
protest. He gave his vote in favour of Venetian glass and a small marble
Diana, against majolica and a French dancing-girl in terra-cotta; he
made an intelligent choice from amongst the various state-properties
around him, and avoided committing himself on the subject of Louis
Quatorze. On one point Audrey was firm. For what reasons nobody can say,
but some Malay creeses had caught her fancy, and no argument could
dissuade her from arranging them over the Neapolitan Psyche which she
had kept at Ted's suggestion. The gruesome weapons, on a background of
barbaric gold, hung above that pathetic torso, like a Fate responsible
for its mutilation. Audrey was pleased with the effect; she revelled in
strong contrasts and grotes