a living, breathing thing on canvas, and your picture will be
rejected. 'Excellent, unequalled, perfect, but--it cannot be seen!'
And what is British art as a consequence? Justly is it looked down
upon by the other nations. We simply set our heel upon the best men.
And look at our productions! Look at the rot and the trash that
floods the libraries every year! Look at the average novel! It's a
disgrace to our intellect! Look at the woodeny dolls that are its
men and women! And behold our Academy! See our pictures!"

"Don't rock your chair like that, Victor; it annoys me."

"Very good," I said, bringing my chair down on its fore legs again.
"Are you ready for the cheese?"

"Yes; but won't you eat anything?"

"No, thanks. I am fed upon annoyance just now."

"You are getting thin on it, too," he answered, looking at me. "It's
a pity you are so excitable!"

"It's a pity I was born in this confounded Britain! I should have
got on all right with Parisian readers. But I don't despair even
here. They can reject my MSS., but they can't take out my brains. I
daresay I shall stumble across some man at last with courage enough
to stand by me in the beginning and help me force open the British
public's jaws and cram my ideas down its throat; and that once done,
it will digest them perfectly, for it's a tough old beast, though
very blind. Why on earth has that fellow carried off the champagne?"