lung back the wings of his
cape with a gesture which, had not those wings been waterproof, might
have seemed to hurl defiance at things in general. And he ordered an
absinthe. "Je me tiens toujours fidele," he told Rothenstein, "a la
sorciere glauque."

"It is bad for you," said Rothenstein, dryly.

"Nothing is bad for one," answered Soames. "Dans ce monde il n'y a ni
bien ni mal."

"Nothing good and nothing bad? How do you mean?"

"I explained it all in the preface to 'Negations.'"

"'Negations'?"

"Yes, I gave you a copy of it."

"Oh, yes, of course. But, did you explain, for instance, that there
was no such thing as bad or good grammar?"

"N-no," said Soames. "Of course in art there is the good and the evil.
But in life--no." He was rolling a cigarette. He had weak, white
hands, not well washed, and with finger-tips much stained with
nicotine. "In life there are illusions of good and evil, but"--his
voice trailed away to a murmur in which the words "vieux jeu" and
"rococo" were faintly audible. I think he felt he was not doing
himself justice, and feared that Rothenstein was going to point out
fallacies. Anyhow, he cleared his throat and said, "Parlons d'autre
chose."

It occurs to you that he was a fool? It didn't to me. I was young,
and had not the clarity of judgment that Rothenstein already had.
Soames was quite five or six years older than either of us. Also--he
had written a book. It was wonderful to have written a book.

If Rothenstein had not been there, I should have revered Soames. Even
as it was, I respected him. And I was very near indeed to reverence
when he said he had another book coming out soon. I asked if I might
ask what kind of book it was to be.

"My poems," he answered. Rothenstein asked if this was to be the title
of the book. The poet meditated on this suggestion, but said he rather
thought of giving the book no title at all. "If a book is good in
itself--" he murmured, and waved his cigarette.

Rothenstein objected that absence of title might be bad for the sale of
a book.

"If," he urged, "I went into a bookseller's and said simply, 'Have you
got?' or, 'Have you a copy of?' how would they know what I wanted?"

"Oh, of course I should have my name on the cover," Soames answered
earnestly. "And I rather want," he added, looking hard at Rothenstein,
"to have a drawing of myself as frontispiece." Rothenstein admitted
that this was a capital idea, and men