make the surface of the city splendid.  A craving for fine objects was his own dearest emotion, he wanted to see cities, states, and the nation ready to spend with equal fervour.  It all came apparently to a matter of spending.  Morrison entertained no doubt that an imperious demand would create an abundant supply of what he called the best art.  Whether we were to transport bodily the great monuments of Europe to America, or merely were to supply beauty off our indigenous bat, was not clear from Morrison’s address, and possibly was not wholly so in his own mind.  But the talk was solid and forceful, and I could hear Vogelstein grunt with inward joy when he contemplated the city, the state, and the nation in their predicted role as customers.  I too felt that a real if an incoherent voice had spoken, and that if civic art were indeed to come, it would be through such neo-Roman visionaries as Morrison.

Then the mood changed and a willowy, hirsute, and earnest reviver of tapestry weaving rose and pleaded for the “City Beautiful,” castigating the Philistine the while, and looking forward to a time when “the pomp, and chronicle of our time should be splendidly committed to illumined window and pictured wall,” with some slight allusion to “those ancient webs through which the Middle Ages still speak glowingly to us.”

About midway in the speech Morrison, who had another public dinner down the avenue slipped away.  As he nodded “See you later perhaps” I marked the adoring eye and smile of Vogelstein, and then the great folds settled back into their places about his mouth and my neighbour once more gave an uneasy attention to the weaver of beautiful phrases, meanwhile drinking repeated glasses of burgundy.  Soon his huge form heaved with an inarticulate discontent, and as the speaker sat down amid perfunctory applause Vogelstein snorted twice into the air.

“It is rather absurd, as you say,” I ventured.

“It’s sickening,” wheezed Vogelstein.  “Why can’t he sell his tapestries without all that talk?”

“Oh, he enjoys the talk and probably believes it, and you and I do better after all to hear his talk than to see his tapestries.”  A mastodonic chuckle welcomed this mild sally.  The burgundy was taking effect.

As the diners rose stiffly or alertly, according to their several grades of repletion, Vogelstein attached himself to me almost affectionately.  “Do stop in the cafe and talk to me,” he urged.  “It’s queer, here are a lot of my customers, some of my artists, besides you literary chaps, and except Morrison, nobody wants to talk to me.  Morrison and I, we understand each other.  It’s early yet.  Come along with me and talk.  I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time, but always was too busy in my place.  You see you writers don’t buy, in fact those that know almost never do.  It’s really queer.”

Knowing the might of burgundy when a due foundation of champagne has been laid, I hardly took this effusion as personal to myself, but I also saw no reason, too, why I should not profit by the occasion.  “I’ll gladly chat with you, Mr. Vogelstein,” I answered, “but you must let me choose the subject.  We will talk about the Balaklava Coronal.”