e occult circuit with a smile.

And the spring sunshine grew hot, and sprinkling carts appeared, and the
metropolis moulted its overcoats, and the derby became a burden, and the
annual spring exhibition of the National Academy of Design remained
uncrowded.

Neville, lunching at the Syrinx Club, carelessly caught the ball of
conversation tossed toward him and contributed his final comment:

"Burleson--and you, Sam Ogilvy--and you, Annan, all say that the
exhibition is rotten. You say so every year; so does the majority of
people. And the majority will continue saying the same thing throughout
the coming decades as long as there are any exhibitions to damn.

"It is the same thing in other countries. For a hundred years the
majority has pronounced every Salon rotten. And it will so continue.

"But the facts are these: the average does not vary much. A mediocrity,
not disagreeable, always rules; supremity has been, is, and always will
be the stick in the riffle around which the little whirlpool will always
centre. This year it happens to be Jose Querida who stems the sparkling
mediocrity and sticks up from the bottom gravel making a fine little
swirl. Next year--or next decade it may be anybody--you, Annan, or
Sam--perhaps," he added with a slight smile, "it might be I. _Quand
meme_. The exhibitions are no rottener than they have ever been; and
it's up to us to go about our business. And I'm going. Good-bye."

He rose from the table, laid aside the remains of his cigar, nodded
good-humouredly to the others, and went out with that quick, graceful,
elastic step which was noticed by everybody and envied by many.

"Hell," observed John Burleson, hitching his broad shoulders forward and
swallowing a goblet of claret at a single gulp, "it's all right for
Kelly Neville to shed sweetness and light over a rotten exhibition where
half the people are crowded around his own picture."

"What a success he's having," mused Ogilvy, looking sideways out of the
window at a pretty girl across the street.

Annan nodded: "He works hard enough for it."

"He works all the time," grumbled Burleson, "but, does he work _hard_?"

"A cat scrambling in a molasses barrel works hard," observed Ogilvy--"if
you see any merit in that, John."

Burleson reared his huge frame and his symmetrical features became more
bovine than ever:

"What the devil has a cat in a molasses barrel to do with the subject?"
he demanded.

Annan laughed: "Poor old