is for itself,' you say. Like the
stars."

"But these people," said the stout gentleman, "think the stars were
made to set their clocks by. They lack the magnanimity to drop the
personal reference. A friend, a _confrere_, saw a party of these
horrible Extension people at Rome before that exquisite Venus of
Titian. 'And now, Mr Something-or-other,' said one of the young
ladies, addressing the pedagogue in command, 'what is _this_ to teach
us?'"

"I have had the same experience," said the young gentleman with the
hair. "A man sent to me only a week ago to ask what my sonnet 'The
Scarlet Thread' _meant_?"

The stout person shook his head as though such things passed all belief.

"Gur-r-r-r," said the gentleman with _Punch_, and scraped with his foot
on the floor of the carriage.

"I gave him answer," said the poet, "'Twas a sonnet; not a symbol."

"Precisely," said the stout gentleman.

"'Tis the fate of all art to be misunderstood. I am always grossly
misunderstood--by every one. They call me fantastic, whereas I am but
inevitably new; indecent, because I am unfettered by mere trivial
personal restrictions; unwholesome."

"It is what they say to me. They are always trying to pull me to
earth. 'Is it wholesome?' they say; 'nutritious?' I say to them, 'I
do not know. I am an artist. I do not care. It is beautiful.'"

"You rhyme?" said the poet.

"No. My work is--more plastic. I cook."

For a moment, perhaps, the poet was disconcerted. "A noble art," he
said, recovering.

"The noblest," said the cook. "But sorely misunderstood; degraded to
utilitarian ends; tested by impossible standards. I have been
seriously asked to render oily food palatable to a delicate patient.
Seriously!"

"He said, 'Bah!' Bah! to _me_!" mumbled the defunct gentleman with
_Punch_, apparently addressing the cartoon. "A cook! Good _Lord_!"

"I resigned. 'Cookery,' I said, 'is an art. I am not a fattener of
human cattle. Think: Is it Art to write a book with an object, to
paint a picture for strategy?' 'Are we,' I said, 'in the sixties or
the nineties? Here, in your kitchen, I am inspired with beautiful
dinners, and I produce them. It is your place to gather together, from
this place one, and from that, one, the few precious souls who can
appreciate that rare and wonderful thing, a dinner, graceful,
harmonious, exquisite, perfect.' And he argued I must study his
guests!"

"No artist is of any worth," sai