efore a picture, it is not by
the thoughts formulated in the mind, but by the appreciation which
suffuses our whole being with pleasure that we should estimate it."

"But isn't that a sensuous attitude?" Beth objected.

"Yes, of the right kind," Ideala rejoined. "The senses have their uses,
you know. And it is exactly your attitude as a child towards the
pictures on the songs. You felt it all--all the full significance--long
before you knew it so that you could render it into words; and felt
more, probably, than you will ever be able to express. Feeling is the
first stage of fine thought."

Mr. Hamilton-Wells strolled towards them. He was a rather tall,
exceedingly thin man, with straight, thick, grey-brown hair, parted in
the middle, and plastered down on either side of his head. He was
dressed in black velvet. His long thin white hands were bedecked with
handsome antique rings, art treasures in their way. One intaglio,
carved in red coral, caught the eye especially, on the first finger of
his right hand. As he talked he had a trick of shaking his hands back
with a gesture that suggested lace ruffles getting in the way, and in
his whole appearance and demeanour there was something that recalled
the days when velvet and lace were in vogue for gentlemen. He spoke
with great preciseness, and it was not always possible to be sure that
he at all appreciated the effect of the extraordinary remarks he was
in the habit of making; which apparent obliviousness enabled him to
discourse about many things without offence which other people were
obliged to leave unmentioned.

"Nowadays, when I see two ladies together in a corner, talking
earnestly," he observed, "I always suspect that they are discussing
the sex question."

"Oh, the sex question!" Ideala exclaimed. "I am sick of sex! Sex is a
thing to be endured or enjoyed, not to be discussed."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Hamilton-Wells, nodding slowly, as if in profound
consideration, and shaking back his imaginary ruffles. "Is that your
opinion, Mrs. Maclure?"

"I keep a separate compartment in my mind for the sex question," Beth
answered, colouring--"a compartment which has to be artificially
lighted. There is no ray of myself that would naturally penetrate to
it. When I take up a book, and find that it is nothing but _she was
beautiful, he loved her_, I put it down again with a groan. The
monotony of the subject palls upon me. It is the stock-in-trade of
every author, as if th