ove the roofs, the statue of Lord Nelson stood perched
in absurd elevation above the London that flouted his Emma, and Clara
laughed to see the little gray man in cocked hat symbolising for her
the delicious absurdity of London, where nothing and nobody could ever
be of the smallest importance in its hugeness.... This was its charm,
that an individual could in it feel the indifference of humanity
exactly as on a hill the indifference of Nature can be felt. A city of
strangers! Everybody was strange to everybody else. That was good and
healthy. Nothing in London was on show, nothing dressed for the
tourist. Living in rooms in London, one could be as lonely as in a hut
in the wilderness.

She walked down to the Imperium, and, entering by the stage door, found
Charles in excited converse with the scenic artist, Mr Smithson, who
was looking at a drawing and scratching his head dubiously.

'It's clever, Mr Mann, but nothing like the seaside. Sir Henry's sure
to want his waves "off," and the sun ought to look a bit like it.'

'That's my design, Mr Smithson. Sir Henry said you would paint it. If
you won't, I'll do it myself.... Ah! Clara, do come and explain to Mr
Smithson what we want.'

Smithson turned angrily.--

'He gives me a blooming drawing with purples and golds and blues and
every colour but the natural colours of a sea-side place. I've painted
scenery for thirty years, and I ought to know what a stage island is
like by now. I've done a dozen sets for _The Tempest_ in my time.'

'It is an enchanted island,' said Clara.

'But Prospero was Duke of Milan.... I've _been_ to the Mediterranean
to see for myself and I know what the colouring is.... I can't believe
that Sir Henry has passed this. God knows what kind of lighting it
will take.'

Charles threw his hat on the ground and stamped on it.

'Dolt! Fool! Idiot!' he shouted. 'Go away and paint it as I tell you
to paint it.'

'Damned if I do,' said Smithson. 'My firm has painted all the scenery
for this theatre since Sir Henry took it, and we've had our name on the
programme, and we've got a reputation to lose. When Shakespeare says
an island, he means an island, not the crater of a blooming volcano....'

Charles snatched his drawing out of Mr Smithson's hand, and with an
expression of extreme agony he said.--

'Clara, you dragged me into this infernal theatre. Will you please see
that I am not driven mad in it? Am I an artist?'

'Y