nd no one could stop them. The
Major replied that nowadays all the world was doing as it pleased, and
no one seemed to be able to stop it; and with that jest the
conversation was turned to other matters. But Montague sat in silence,
thinking about it--wondering what would happen to the world when it had
fallen under the sway of this generation of spoiled children, and had
adopted altogether the religion of doing as one pleased.

In the beginning people had simply done as they pleased spontaneously,
and without thinking about it; but now, Montague discovered, the custom
had spread to such an extent that it was developing a philosophy. There
was springing up a new cult, whose devotees were planning to make over
the world upon the plan of doing as one pleased. Because its members
were wealthy, and able to command the talent of the world, the cult was
developing an art, with a highly perfected technique, and a literature
which was subtle and exquisite and alluring. Europe had had such a
literature for a century, and England for a generation or two. And now
America was having it, too!

Montague had an amusing insight into this one day, when Mrs. Vivie
invited him to one of her "artistic evenings." Mrs. Vivie was in touch
with a special set which went in for intellectual things, and included
some amateur Bohemians and men of "genius." "Don't you come if you'll
be shocked," she had said to him--"for Strathcona will be there."

Montague deemed himself able to stand a good deal by this time. He
went, and found Mrs. Vivie and her Count (Mr. Vivie had apparently not
been invited) and also the young poet of Diabolism, whose work was just
then the talk of the town. He was a tall, slender youth with a white
face and melancholy black eyes, and black locks falling in cascades
about his ears; he sat in an Oriental corner, with a manuscript copied
in tiny handwriting upon delicately scented "art paper," and tied with
passionate purple ribbons. A young girl clad in white sat by his side
and held a candle, while he read from this manuscript his unprinted
(because unprintable) verses.

And between the readings the young poet talked. He talked about himself
and his work--apparently that was what he had come to talk about. His
words flowed like a swift stream, limpid, sparkling, incessant; leaping
from place to place--here, there, quick as the play of light upon the
water. Montague laboured to follow the speaker's ideas, until he found
hi