l something of the revolt which the man of
action so soon experiences when he listens to an artist talking.

"It sounds all right," he said abruptly; "all the same, monsieur, all my
sympathy is with modern life. Take these young girls, and these Tommies.
For all their feather-pated vulgarity and they are damned vulgar, I must
say--they're marvellous people; they do take the rough with the smooth;
they're all 'doing their bit,' you know, and facing this particularly
beastly world. Aesthetically, I daresay, they're deplorable, but can
you say that on the whole their philosophy isn't an advance on anything
we've had up till now? They worship nothing, it's true; but they keep
their ends up marvellously."

The painter, who seemed to feel the wind blowing cold on his ideas,
shrugged his shoulders.

"I am not concerned with that, monsieur; I set down what I see; better
or worse, I do not know. But look at this!" And he pointed down the
darkened and moonlit street. It was all jewelled and enamelled with
little spots and splashes of subdued red and green-blue light, and the
downward orange glow of the high lamps--like an enchanted dream-street
peopled by countless moving shapes, which only came to earth-reality
when seen close to. The painter drew his breath in with a hiss.

"Ah!" he said, "what beauty! And they don't see it--not one in a
thousand! Pity, isn't it? Beauty is the holy thing!"

Fort, in his turn, shrugged his shoulders. "Every man to his vision!"
he said. "My leg's beginning to bother me; I'm afraid I must take a cab.
Here's my address; any time you like to come. I'm often in about seven.
I can't take you anywhere, I suppose?"

"A thousand thanks, monsieur; but I go north. I loved your words about
the pack. I often wake at night and hear the howling of all the packs
of the world. Those who are by nature gentle nowadays feel they are
strangers in a far land. Good night, monsieur!"

He took off his queer hat, bowed low, and crossed out into the Strand,
like one who had come in a dream, and faded out with the waking. Fort
hailed a cab, and went home, still seeing Noel's face. There was one, if
you liked, waiting to be thrown to the wolves, waiting for the world's
pack to begin howling round her--that lovely child; and the first, the
loudest of all the pack, perhaps, must be her own father, the lean, dark
figure with the gentle face, and the burnt bright eyes. What a ghastly
business! His dreams that night were