d Paul. "The triumph of Continental cookery
rests upon a basis of oil."

"We will bathe in the unctuous fumes. Enter, my friends."

Passing the swing-door they entered the cafe, which was full as usual,
so that at first it seemed as though they would find no accommodation.

"Twenty-five per cent of elbows are nudging fifty per cent of ribs,"
said Thessaly, "and ninety per cent of eyes are staring at Paul Mario.
Personally, my extreme modesty would revolt. I once endeavoured to
visualise Fame and the resultant picture was that of a huge room filled
with pretty women, all of whom watched me with the fixed gaze of nascent
love. It was exquisite but embarrassing. I think there is a table near
the corner, on the right, a spot sanctified by the frequent presence of
Jacob Epstein. Let us intrude."

They made their way to the table indicated by Thessaly, and the curious
sudden silence which notability imposes upon the ordinary marked their
progress. Paul's handsome olive face became the focus of a hundred
glances. Several people who were seated with their backs toward the
entrance, half rose to look covertly at him as he walked in. They seated
themselves at the marble-topped table, Don and Paul upon the plush
lounge and Thessaly upon a chair facing them. "I have a mirror before
me," said Thessaly, "and can stare without fear of rebuke. Yonder is a
group of Johnsons."

"To whom do you refer?" asked Don.

"To those young men wearing Soho whiskers and coloured collars. I call
them Johnsons because they regard Augustus John as their spiritual
father."

"And what is your opinion of his school?" inquired Don.

"He has no school. His work is aspirative, if you will grant me the
word; the striving of a soul which knew the art of an earlier
civilisation to seek expression in this. Such a man may have imitators,
but he can never have disciples."

"He is a master of paint."

"Quite possibly. Henry James was a master of ink, but only by prayer and
fasting can we hope to grasp his message. Both afford examples of very
strange and experienced spirits trammelled by the limitations of
imperfect humanity. Their dreams cannot be expressed in terms within the
present human compass. Debussy's extraordinary music may be explained
in the same way. Those who seek to follow such a lead follow a
Jack-o'-lantern. The more I see of the work of the Johnsons the more
fully I recognise it to embody all that we do not ask of art."

"Those views