r perceived that he was both proud
and ashamed of the fact. "At least I am going to. A monthly publication
for the entertainment and edification of the Englishman in Venice. Lord
Evelyn Urquhart is financing it. You know he has taken up his residence
in Venice? A pleasant crank. Venice is his latest craze. He buys glass.
And, indeed, most other things. He shops all day. It's a mania. When he
was young I believe he had a very fine taste. It's dulled now--a fearful
life, as they say. Well, his last fancy is to run a magazine, and I'm to
edit it. It's to be called 'The Gem.' 'Gemm' Adriatica,' you know, and
all that; besides, it's more or less appropriate to the contents. It's to
be largely concerned with what Lord Evelyn calls 'charming things.'
Things the visiting Englishman likes to hear about, you know. It aims at
being the Complete Tourist's Guide. I have to get hold of people who'll
write articles on the Duomo mosaics, and the galleries and churches and
palaces and so on, and glass and lace and anything else that occurs to
them, in a way calculated to appeal to the cultivated British resident or
visitor. I detest the breed, I needn't say. Pampered hotel Philistines
pretending to culture and profaning the sanctuaries, Ruskin in hand.
_Ruskin_. Really, you know.... Well, anyhow, my mission in life for
the present is to minister to their insatiable appetite for rhapsodising
over what they feel it incumbent on them to admire."

"Rather fascinating," Peter said. It was a pity that Hilary always
so disliked any work he had to do. Work--a terrific, insatiable god,
demanding its hideous human sacrifices from the dawn of the world till
twilight--so Hilary saw it. The idea of being horrible, all the concrete
details into which it was translated were horrible too.

"If it was me," said Peter, "I should minister to my own appetite, no one
else's. Bother the cultivated resident. He'd jolly well have to take what
I gave him. And glass and mosaic and lace--what glorious things to write
about.... I rather love Lord Evelyn, don't you."

Peter remembered him at Astleys, in Berkshire--Urquhart's uncle, tall
and slim and exquisite, with beautiful waistcoats and white, attractive,
nervous hands, that played with a monocle, and a high-pitched voice, and
a whimsical, prematurely worn-out face, and a habit of screwing up
short-sighted eyes and saying, with his queer, closed enunciation, "Quate
charming. Quate." He had always liked Peter, w