e hands, thumbs joined,
across his rotund abdomen, stole a glance at his dazed son-in-law, which
was partly apprehensive and partly significant, almost cunning. "An
innocent saturnalia," he murmured. "The charming abandon of children."
He unclasped one hand and waved it. "Did you note the unstudied beauty
of the composition as my babes glided in and out following the natural
and archaic yet exquisitely balanced symmetry of the laws which govern
mass and line composition, all unconsciously, yet perhaps"--he reversed
his thumb and left his sign manual upon the atmosphere--"perhaps," he
mused, overflowing with sweetness--"perhaps the laws of Art Nouveau are
divine!--perhaps angels and cherubim, unseen, watch fondly o'er my
babes, lest all unaware they guiltlessly violate some subtle canon of
Art, marring the perfect symmetry of eternal preciousness."

Wayne's mouth was partly open, his eyes hopeless yet fixed upon the poet
with a fearful fascination.

"Art," breathed the poet, "is a solemn, a fearful responsibility. _You_
are responsible, George, and some day you must answer for every
violation of Art, to the eternal outraged fitness of things. _You_ must
answer, _I_ must answer, every soul must answer!"

"A-ans--answer! What, for God's sake?" stammered Wayne.

The poet, deliberately joining thumb and forefinger, pinched out a
portion of the atmosphere.

"That! _That_ George! For that is Art! And Art is justice! And justice,
affronted, demands an answer."

He refolded his arms, mused for a space, then stealing a veiled glance
sideways:

"You--you are--ah--convinced that my two lost lambs need dread no bodily
vicissitudes----"

"Cybele and Lissa?"

"Ah--yes----"

"Lethbridge will have money to burn if he likes the aroma of the smoke.
Harrow has burnt several stacks already; but his father will continue to
fire the furnace. Is _that_ what you mean?"

"No!" said the poet softly, "no, George, that is not what I mean. Wealth
is a great thing. Only the little things are precious to me. And the
most precious of all is absolutely nothing!" But, as he wandered away
into the great luxurious habitation of his son-in-law, his smile grew
sweeter and sweeter and his half-closed eyes swam, melting into a
saccharine reverie.

"The little things," he murmured, thumbing the air absently--"the little
things are precious, but not as precious as absolutely nothing. For
nothing is perfection. Thank you," he said sweetly to a pet