at all; but we must not despair. Genius is the art of not taking pains,
and genius is more common than is generally supposed. If we do not take
proper pains, there is no reason why even the cleverest among us should
not in time learn to practise beautifully the beautiful art of folly. It
is always well to be personal, and as egoism is scarcely less artistic
than its own brother, vanity, I shall make no apology for now alluding,
in as marked a manner as possible, to myself. I"--he spoke here with
superb emphasis--"I am absurd. For years I have tried in vain not to
hide it. For years I have striven to call public attention to my
exquisite gift, to impress its existence upon a heartless world, to lift
it up as a darkness that all may see, and for years I have practically
failed. I have practically failed, but I am not without hope. I believe
that my absurdity is at last beginning to obtain a meed of recognition.
I believe that a few fine spirits are beginning to understand that
artistic absurdity, the perfection of folly, has a bright and glorious
future before it. I am absurd, and have been so for very many years,
and in very many ways. I have been an aesthete. I have lain upon
hearth-rugs and eaten passion-flowers. I have clothed myself in breeches
of white samite, and offered my friends yellow jonquils instead of
afternoon tea. But when aestheticism became popular in Bayswater--a part
of London built for the delectation of the needy rich--I felt that it
was absurd no longer, and I turned to other things. It was then, one
golden summer day, among the flowering woods of Richmond, that I
invented a new art, the art of preposterous conversation. A middle-class
country has prevented me from patenting my exquisite invention, which
has been closely imitated by dozens of people much older and much
stupider than myself; but nobody so far has been able to rival me in my
own particular line of business, and my society 'turns' at luncheon
parties, dances, and dinners are invariably received with an applause
which is almost embarrassing, and which is scarcely necessary to one so
admirably conceited as myself."

At this point, Esme, whose face had been gradually assuming a pained and
irritated expression, paused, and looking towards the West, which was
barred with green and gold, and flecked with squadrons of rose-coloured
cloudlets, exclaimed in a voice expressive of weakness--

"That sky is becoming so terribly imitative that I can