cling perhaps closer than ever to the great
canons that the great masters have set forth for us. What do these new
men worship? Color--color--blobs and blotches of raw, crude color! They
think of nothing else, these barbarians. Let drawing, arrangement,
construction even, go--they say--and with bloodshot eyes they dance in
one wild debauch of life and light! It is not art!"

Casting an imperceptibly alert eye to right and left, Pelgram saw that he
was now in possession of the maximum audience he was likely to achieve.
In a near-by corner, blockaded by three attentive gentlemen who seemed
much less interested in art than in nature, sat Miss Maitland, within
easy though obstructed earshot. She could hardly help hearing, and with
an inward sigh of satisfaction the artist gave himself over utterly to
the exordium which for some inexplicable reason formed the nucleus of his
idea of a properly conducted studio affair. He felt that he was going to
be very eloquent, and he felt reasonably secure from interruption, for no
one in that company would have the temerity to question, on his own
hearthstone, his pronunciamentos. No one,--except perhaps the
irrepressible Wilkinson,--and it was with the greatest relief that he
beheld Charlie safely out of hearing and engaged in rapt converse with
Isabel.

"Yes, those of us who believe, who still hold the immortal things sacred,
have a great trust vested in us. It is for us, the few still faithful,
to keep the lustral fires pure from defilement by the unbelievers. What
would the great draughtsmen of old, the great true colorists among the
masters, say if we should betray them to the wild, criminal vagaries of
these falsest of false prophets?"

He turned savagely upon Ling Hop, who replied, with entire truth, and
with a certain feeling for caution which showed that he could be trusted
in any crisis:--

"Yes. What?"

"They swarm with muddy feet through the safest, surest halls of art of
all time. They do not hesitate to say that arrangement--arrangement!--is
not a necessity in a work of art. They say construction is not vital.
They care nothing of whether nature at the moment is right or
wrong--whether there is a combination of circumstances worthy of
reproduction--but they throw their pictures on the canvas in any way they
chance to come. And what pictures! Raw, flaunting things, with no care
given to balance, none to line, none to color! It would be
unbelievable--if