and hopelessly middle class."

An interruption occurred here--one of the smallest children who was
stationed in the front of the group under the cedar tree suddenly
bursting into a flood of tears, and having to be led, shrieking, away to
a distant corner of the garden. Esme followed its convulsed form with
his eyes, and then remarked--

"That child is being absurd; but that child is not an artist, because it
is not conscious of its absurdity. Remember, then, to be self-conscious,
to set aside the normal, to be young, and to be eternally foolish. Take
nothing seriously, except yourselves, if possible. Do not be deceived
into thinking the mind greater than the face, or the soul grander than
the body. Strike the words virtue and wickedness out of your
dictionaries. There is nothing good and nothing evil. There is only art.
Despise the normal, and flee from everything that is hallowed by custom,
as you would flee from the seven deadly virtues. Cling to the abnormal.
Shrink from the cold and freezing touch of Nature. One touch of Nature
makes the whole world commonplace. Forget your Catechism, and remember
the words of Flaubert and of Walter Pater, and remember this, too, that
the folly of self-conscious fools is the only true wisdom! And now sing
to us your hymn, sing to us under the cedar tree self-consciously, and
we will listen self-consciously, even as Ulysses listened to----"

But here a gentle and penetrating "Hush!" broke from the lips of Mrs.
Windsor, and Esme paused.

"Sing to us," he said, "and we will listen as the old listen to the
voices of youth, as the nightingale listens to the properly trained
vocalist, as Nature listens to Art. Sing to us, beautiful rose-coloured
children, until we forget that you are singing a hymn, and remember only
that you are young, and that some day, in the long-delayed fulness of
time, you will be no longer innocent."

He uttered the last words in a tone so soft and so seductive that it was
like honey and the honeycomb, and then stood with his eyes fixed
dreamily upon the children, who had been getting decidedly red and
fidgety, unaccustomed to be directly addressed, and in so fantastic a
manner. The relief of the teachers at the cessation of Amarinth's
address was tumultuously obvious. They once more turned out their toes.
The anguished expression died away from their faces, and they ceased to
twist their fingers into curious patterns suggestive of freehand
drawings. The nati