"On the contrary, above comprehension! All poetry praised by critics
now-a-days is as hard to understand as a hieroglyphic. I own a weakness
for Pope and common sense. I could keep up with our age as far as Byron;
after him I was thrown out. However, Arthur was declared by the critics
to be a great improvement on Byron--more 'poetical in form'--more
'aesthetically artistic'--more 'objective' or 'subjective' (I am sure I
forget which; but it was one or the other, nonsensical, and not English)
in his views of man and nature. Very possibly. All I know is--I bought
the poems, but could not read them; the critics read them, but did not
buy. All that Frank Vance could make by painting hand-screens and fans
and album-scraps, he sent, I believe, to the poor poet; but I fear it did
not suffice. Arthur, I suspect, must have been publishing another volume
on his own account. I saw a Monody on something or other, by Arthur
Branthwaite, advertised, and no doubt Frank's fans and hand-screens must
have melted into the printer's bill. But the Monody never appeared: the
poet died, his young wife too. Frank Vance remains a bachelor, and
sneers at gentility--abhors poets--is insulted if you promise posthumous
fame--gets the best price he can for his pictures--and is proud to be
thought a miser. Here we are at his door."




CHAPTER XIV.

ROMANTIC LOVE PATHOLOGICALLY REGARDED BY FRANK VANCE AND ALBAN
MORLEY.

Vance was before his easel, Lionel looking over his shoulder. Never was
Darrell more genial than he was that day to Frank Vance. The two men