ever before seen a play? I haven't, and my name is
Cybele."

"It is per--perfectly heavenly to hear you talk," stammered Lethbridge.

Harrow heard him, turned and looked him full in the eyes, then slowly
resumed his attitude of attention: for the poet was speaking:

"The Art of Barnard Haw is the quintessence of simplicity. What is the
quintessence of simplicity?" He lifted one heavy pudgy hand, joined the
tips of his soft thumb and forefinger, and selecting an atom of air,
deftly captured it. "_That_ is the quintessence of simplicity; _that_ is
Art!"

He smiled largely on Harrow, whose eyes had become wild again.

"_That!_" he repeated, pinching out another molecule of atmosphere, "and
_that_!" punching dent after dent in the viewless void with inverted
thumb.

On the hapless youth the overpowering sweetness of his smile acted like
an anesthetic; he saw things waver, even wabble; and his hidden clutch
on Lissa's fingers tightened spasmodically.

"Thank you," said the poet, leaning forward to fix the young man with
his heavy-lidded eyes. "Thank you for the precious thoughts you inspire
in me. Bless you. Our mental and esthetic commune has been very precious
to me--very, very precious," he mooned bulkily, his rich voice dying to
a resonant, soothing drone.

Lissa turned to the petrified young man. "Please be clever some more,"
she whispered. "You were so perfectly delightful about this play."

"Child!" he groaned, "I have scarcely sufficient intellect to keep me
overnight. You must know that I haven't understood one single thing your
father has been kind enough to say."

"What didn't you understand?" she asked, surprised.

"'_That!_'" He flourished his thumb. "What does '_That!_' mean?"

"Oh, that is only a trick father has caught from painters who tell you
how they're going to use their brushes. But the truth is I've usually
noticed that they do most of their work in the air with their thumbs....
What else did you not understand?"

"Oh--Art!" he said wearily. "What is it? Or, as Barnard Haw, the higher
exponent of the Webberfield philosophy, might say: 'What it iss? Yess?'"

"I don't know what the Webberfield philosophy is," said Lissa
innocently, "but Art is only things one believes. And it's awfully hard,
too, because nobody sees the same thing in the same way, or believes the
same things that others believe. So there are all kinds of Art. I think
the only way to be sure is when the artist makes himsel