ought. This man who
opposed his mind to his could out-manoeuvre him at every move. He was
painfully conscious now that opinions he had thought to be his own were
only unwinnowed sheaves of thought gleaned in the field of his reading.
Still, he felt that with pen in hand, and no quick answer to each
phrase, he could prove his case. How often does the writing man feel
thus.

"But there is nothing in this book, so far as I can see," urged Henry
warmly, "that tends to elevate the mind to better things. It may be true
what you say of the butcher's shop, but the pastrycook's is a pleasanter
place any day."

"Ah, my young friend, that way lies indigestion," the other retorted,
smiling. "It is none of the artist's business to elevate; it is his
function to interpret life, and you will tramp far along the dusty road
of life to find anything that elevates. The fact is, when I--I mean,
when Adrian Grant set himself to write that book, I believe his purpose
was to attack the mawkish sentimentality of our contemporary fiction,
to strike a blow at the shoddy romance which is the worst form of art.
For my part, deliver me, I pray, from all writers who seek to elevate.
The true watchword is 'Art for art's sake.'"

"To me it seems rather 'Art for dirt's sake,'" Henry rejoined a little
savagely, and a shadow of displeasure clouded the features of his
visitor at the words. "But admitting all you say, is there no Power
apart from ourselves that tends to draw our thoughts, our very souls,
upward?"

"I have looked for it in vain," the other speaker replied, with a
languid wave of the hand. "What about the life of our slums, for
instance? Is every man and woman there a villain, a lost soul? Surely
not. Yet we see every evil rampant, we see every virtue dead; vice
triumphant. Who is to blame? The people: the victims? Surely not. Reason
says no, a thousand times. Where is this Power you speak of when
slumland exists, a horror? But in Kensington there is as little that
elevates as there is in Whitechapel. The honest man loses generally in
the struggle; the scoundrel flaunts himself before high heaven; he rides
in mayoral furs, he swarms into Parliament, he mounts the very pulpit
itself."

Henry was abashed and silent before the impassioned language of the
speaker, who had suddenly flamed up and risen from his seat, pacing the
room with restless strides while he declaimed and gesticulated
surprisingly for one who had seemed so self-possess