to his bedroom—­talk, talk, talk—­in they went—­then he used to begin to undress—­no escape—­I can hear his voice muffled as he pulled off his shirt—­off went his socks—­talking still—­then he would actually get into bed—­more explanations, more quotations, I wonder how the guest got away; that isn’t related—­in the intervals of an inaudible quotation, perhaps?  What do you think?”

We exploded in laughter, in which Father Payne joined.  Then he said:  “But look here, you know, it’s not really a joke—­it’s horribly serious!  A man ought really to be prosecuted for writing such a book.  That is the worst of English people, that they have no idea who deserves a biography and who does not.  It isn’t enough to be a rich man, or a public man, or a man of virtue.  No one ought to be written about, simply because he has done things.  He must be content with that.  No one should have a biography unless he was either beautiful or picturesque or absurd, just as no one should have a portrait painted unless he is one of the three.  Now this poor fellow—­I daresay there were people who loved him—­think what their feelings must be at seeing him stuffed and set up like this!  A biography must be a work of art—­it ought not to be a post-dated testimonial!  Most of us are only fit, when we have finished our work, to go straight into the waste-paper basket.  The people who deserve biographies are the vivid, rich, animated natures who lived life with zest and interest.  There are a good many such men, who can say vigorous, shrewd, lively, fresh things in talk, but who cannot express themselves in writing.  The curse of most biographies is the letters; not many people can write good letters, and yet it becomes a sacred duty to pad a Life out with dull and stodgy documents; it is all so utterly inartistic and decorous and stupid.  A biography ought to be well seasoned with faults and foibles.  That is the one encouraging thing about life, that a man can have plenty of failings and still make a fine business out of it all.  Yet it is regarded as almost treacherous to hint at imperfections.  Now if I had had our friend the general merchant to biographise, I would have taken careful notes of his talk while undressing—­there’s something picturesque about that!  I would have told how he spent his day, how he looked and moved, ate and drank.  A real portrait of an uninteresting man might be quite a treasure.”

“Yes, but you know it wouldn’t do,” said Barthrop; “his friends would be out at you like a swarm of wasps.”

“Oh, I know that,” said Father Payne.  “It is all this infernal sentimentality which spoils everything; as long as we think of the dead as elderly angels hovering over us while we pray, there is nothing to be done.  If we really believe that we migrate out of life into an atmosphere of mild piety, and lose all our individuality at once, then, of course, the less said the better.  As long as we hold that, then death must remain as the worst