s companion. There was a short silence; Cyril was
still seated under the tall, straight cypress, whose fallen fruit, like
carved balls of wood, strewed the sere grass, and whose compact hairy
trunk gave out a resinous scent, more precious and strange than that
of the fir: he felt that he was momentarily crushed, but had a vague
sense that there lurked somewhere reasons, and very potent ones, which
prevented his friend being completely victorious; and Baldwin was
patiently waiting for him to muster his ideas into order before
continuing the discussion. A slight breeze from the over-clouded sea
sent a shiver across the olives into the ravine below, turning their
feathery tops into a silver ripple, as of a breaking wave; the last
belated cicalas, invisible in the thick plumy branches of the cypresses,
sawed slowly and languidly in the languid late afternoon; and from
the farms hidden in the olive yards of the slope came faint sounds of
calling voices and barking dogs--just sound enough to make the stillness
more complete. "All that is very true," said Cyril at last, "and yet--I
don't know how to express it--I feel that there is still remaining to me
all my reason for doubt and dissatisfaction. You say that artistic work
is morally justifiable to the artist, since he is giving pleasure to
others. From this point of view you are perfectly right. But what I
feel is, that the pleasure which the artist thus gives is not morally
valuable to those who enjoy it. Do you follow? I mean that the
artist may be nobly and generously employed, and yet, by some fatal
contradiction, the men and women who receive his gifts are merely
selfishly gratified. He might not, perhaps, be better employed than in
giving pleasure, but they might surely be better employed than in merely
receiving it; and thus the selfishness of the enjoyment of the gift
seems to diminish the moral value of giving it. When an artist gives to
other men an hour of mere enjoyment, I don't know whether he ought to
be quite proud or not."

Baldwin merely laughed. "It is droll to see what sort of hypermoral
scruples some people indulge in now-a-days. So, your sense of the
necessity of doing good is so keen that you actually feel wretched at
the notion of your neighbours being simply happy, and no more, for an
hour. You are not sure whether, by thus taking them away for a moment
from the struggle with evil, letting them breathe and rest in the middle
of the battle, you may not