t, leaning over to look along the line of fragrant,
fresh young beauty, "Art is an art." With which epigram he slowly closed
his eyes.

His daughters looked at him; a young woman expensively but not smartly
gowned bent forward from the row behind. Her attitude was almost
prayerful; her eyes burned.

[Illustration:
He paused; his six tall and blooming daughters two and two
behind him.]

"Art," continued the poet, opening his heavy lids with a large, sweet
smile, "Art is above Art, but Art is never below Art. Art, to be Art,
must be artless. That is a very precious thought--very, very precious.
Thank you for understanding me--thank you." And he included in his large
smile young Harrow, who had been unconsciously bending forward,
hypnotized by the monotonous resonance of the poet's deep, rich voice.

Now that the spell was broken, he sank back in his chair, looking at
Lethbridge a little wildly.

"Let me sit next--after the first act," began Lethbridge, coaxing;
"they'll be watching the stage all the first act and you can look at 'em
without being rude, and they'll do the same next act, and I can look at
'em, and perhaps they'll ask us what Art really is----"

"Did you hear what that man said?" interrupted Harrow, recovering his
voice. "_Did_ you?"

"No; what?"

"Well, listen next time. And all I have to say is, if that firing-line,
with its battery of innocent blue eyes, understands him, you and I had
better apply to the nearest night-school for the rudiments of an
education."

"Well, what did he say?" began the other uneasily, when again the poet
bent forward to address the firing-line; and the lovely blue battery
turned silently upon the author of their being.

"Art is the result of a complex mental attitude capable of producing
concrete simplicity."

"Help!" whispered Harrow, but the poet had caught his eye, and was
fixing the young man with a smile that held him as sirup holds a fly.

"You ask me what is Art, young sir? Why should I not heed you? Why
should I not answer you? What artificial barriers, falsely called
convention, shall force me to ignore the mute eloquence of your
questioning eyes? You ask me what is Art. I will tell you; it is
_this_!" And the poet, inverting his thumb, pressed it into the air.
Then, carefully inspecting the dent he had made in the atmosphere, he
erased it with a gesture and folded his arms, looking gravely at Harrow,
whose fascinated eyes protruded.

Behind him