clerkly fellow, with a head like a billiard-ball
in need of a shave, a big brown moustache, and enormous spectacles.

"That," said the publisher, referring to the moon-in-the-pine-wood young
man, "is our young apostle of sentiment, our new man of feeling, the
best-hated man we have; and the other is our young apostle of blood. He
is all for muscle and brutality--and he makes all the money. It is one
of our many fashions just now to sing 'Britain and Brutality.' But my
impression is that our young man of feeling will have his day,--though
he will have to wait for it. He would hasten it if he would cut his
hair; but that, he says, he will never do. His hair, he says, is his
battle-cry. Well, he enjoys himself--and loves a fight, though you
mightn't think it to look at him."

A supercilious young man, with pink cheeks, and a voice which his
admirers compared to Shelley's, then came up to Henry and asked him what
he thought of Mallarme's latest sonnet; but finding Henry confessedly at
sea, turned the conversation to the Empire ballet, of which,
unfortunately, Henry knew as little. The conversation then languished,
and the Shelley-voiced young man turned elsewhere for sympathy, with a
shrug at your country bumpkins who know nothing later than Rossetti.

In the thick of the conversational turmoil, Henry's attention had from
time to time been attracted by the noise proceeding from a blustering,
red-headed man, with a face of fire.

"Who is that?" at last he found opportunity to ask his friend.

"That is our greatest critic," said the publisher.

"Oh!" said Henry, "I must try and hear what he is saying. It seems
important from the way he is listened to."

So Henry listened, and heard how the fire-faced man said the word "damn"
with great volubility and variety of cadence, and other words to the
same effect, and how the little group around him hung upon his words and
said to each other, "How brilliant!" "How absolute!"

Henry turned to his friend. "The only word I can catch is the word
'damn,'" he said.

"That," said the publisher, with a laugh, "is the master-word of
fashionable criticism."

Presently a little talkative man came up, and said that he hoped Mr.
Mesurier was an adherent of the rightful king.

"Oh, of course!" said Henry.

"And do you belong to any secret society?" asked the little man.

Henry couldn't say that he did.

"Well, you must join us!" he said.

"I suppose there won't be a rising just ye