or art.

"I shall be most interested to read your review," said Mr. P.; "and
might I steal a march on your other readers by asking what impression
'Ashes' has made on you?"

"I can best describe it by saying it leaves a nasty taste in the
mouth--clever, but not nice."

"Which might suggest that the author has succeeded in his task,"
rejoined the other, laughing and lighting a fresh cigarette, "since
ashes have usually that effect. You know Moore's famous lines:

"'Dead Sea fruits that tempt the eye,
But turn to ashes on the lips'?"

"Yes, and I think that 'Dead Sea Fruits' would have been as good a title
for the book. But happily for mankind, we are not in the habit of making
excursions to the Dead Sea to taste its apples."

"There speaks hopeful youth. That is precisely what mankind is ever
doing; that is the tragedy of life."

"Surely there is more beauty than ugliness in the world, and even if
there were less would it not be nobler to draw man's thoughts to the
beauty rather than to the ugliness?"

"Your view of art is somewhat Philistine, don't you think? The artist's
business is not with morals but with truth, and truth is not always
beautiful."

"But there must be a purpose behind every work of art--a moral purpose,
I mean," the younger man persisted, although he was conscious he was no
match in argument against the defender of "Ashes."

Henry's opinions were still in that state of flux when a young man's
thoughts take on some colouring from every influence that touches them,
and are only in a very minor degree the expression of his own mind.

"The only purpose the artist need avow is to express the truth as he
sees it," continued Mr. Puddephatt confidently. "I shall admit that the
picture set forth in this novel is ugly, but I believe it to be true.
Remember, we have the butcher's shop as well as the pastrycook's in
Nature, and I fancy the former is the larger establishment."

"Admitted," Henry retorted, with lessening fervour, "but are we not told
that the end of art is to please?"

"Assuredly; to please what?--Our sense of the artistic. The Italians
have a fine way of talking about 'beautiful ugliness,' and if the
artist, working within the limits of his medium, proves to others that
the thing he has produced--picture, statue, book--is in tune with
Nature, let it be never so ugly, it must still please our artistic
sense."

Henry found himself wandering in a _cul de sac_ of th