pply himself, the thing without the effort to achieve which
he wouldn't write at all, the very passion of his passion, the part of
the business in which, for him, the flame of art burns most intensely?
Well, it's _that!_"

I considered a moment. I was fascinated--easily, you'll say; but I
wasn't going after all to be put off my guard. "Your description's
certainly beautiful, but it doesn't make what you describe very
distinct."

"I promise you it would be distinct if it should dawn on you at all."
I saw that the charm of our topic overflowed for my companion into an
emotion as lively as my own. "At any rate," he went on, "I can speak for
myself: there's an idea in my work without which I wouldn't have given a
straw for the whole job. It's the finest, fullest intention of the lot,
and the application of it has been, I think, a triumph of patience,
of ingenuity. I ought to leave that to somebody else to say; but that
nobody does say it is precisely what we're talking about. It stretches,
this little trick of mine, from book to book, and everything else,
comparatively, plays over the surface of it. The order, the form, the
texture of my books will perhaps some day constitute for the initiated
a complete representation of it. So it's naturally the thing for the
critic to look for. It strikes me," my visitor added, smiling, "even as
the thing for the critic to find."

This seemed a responsibility indeed. "You call it a little trick?"

"That's only my little modesty. It's really an exquisite scheme."

"And you hold that you've carried the scheme out?"

"The way I've carried it out is the thing in life I think a bit well of
myself for."

I was silent a moment. "Don't you think you ought--just a trifle--to
assist the critic?"

"Assist him? What else have I done with every stroke of my pen? I've
shouted my intention in his great blank face!" At this, laughing out
again, Vereker laid his hand on my shoulder to show that the allusion
was not to my personal appearance.

"But you talk about the initiated. There must therefore, you see, be
initiation."

"What else in heaven's name is criticism supposed to be?" I'm afraid I
coloured at this too; but I took refuge in repeating that his account of
his silver lining was poor in something or other that a plain man knows
things by. "That's only because you've never had a glimpse of it," he
replied. "If you had had one the element in question would soon have
become practically