will tell you, first, that your notion is borrowed, and, secondly, that it
isn't Art.

''This comes of my leaving town for a month. Dickie, you've been
promenading among the toy-shops and hearing people talk.'

'I couldn't help it,' said Dick, penitently. 'You weren't here, and it was
lonely these long evenings. A man can't work for ever.'

'A man might have gone to a pub, and got decently drunk.'

'I wish I had; but I forgathered with some men of sorts. They said they
were artists, and I knew some of them could draw,--but they wouldn't
draw. They gave me tea,--tea at five in the afternoon!--and talked about
Art and the state of their souls. As if their souls mattered. I've heard
more about Art and seen less of her in the last six months than in the
whole of my life. Do you remember Cassavetti, who worked for some
continental syndicate, out with the desert column? He was a regular
Christmas-tree of contraptions when he took the field in full fig, with his
water-bottle, lanyard, revolver, writing-case, housewife, gig-lamps, and
the Lord knows what all. He used to fiddle about with 'em and show us
how they worked; but he never seemed to do much except fudge his
reports from the Nilghai. See?'

'Dear old Nilghai! He's in town, fatter than ever. He ought to be up here
this evening. I see the comparison perfectly. You should have kept clear
of all that man-millinery. Serves you right; and I hope it will unsettle
your mind.'

'It won't. It has taught me what Art--holy sacred Art--means.'