“That,” he said, indicating a very pale young man, surrounded by women, “is Pickering, the celebrated submarine painter.”

“The what?” demanded Bob.

“Submarine painter.  He paints fish and green water and lobsters, and the bottom of the sea generally.  He paints them on the skins of kind-faced little calves.”

“What does he do that for?”

“He says it’s the only surface that will express what he wants to.  He has also invented a waterproof paint that he can use under water.  He has a coral throne down on the bottom which he sits in, and paints as long as he can hold his breath.”

“Oh, he does!” said Bob.

“Yes,” said Baker.

“But a man can’t see three feet in front of his face under water!” cried Bob.

“Pickering says he can.  He paints submarinescapes, and knows all the fishes.  He says fishes have individual expressions.  He claims he can tell by a fish’s expression whether he is polygamous or monogamous.”

“Do you mean to tell me anybody swallows that rot!” demanded Bob indignantly.

“The women do—­and a lot more I can’t remember.  The market for calf-skins with green swirls on them is booming.  Also the women clubbed together and gave him money enough to build a house.”

Bob surveyed the little white-faced man with a strong expression of disgust.

“The natural man never sits in chairs,” the artist was expounding.  “When humanity shall have come into its own we shall assume the graceful and hygienic postures of the oriental peoples.  In society one must, to a certain extent, follow convention, but in my own house, the House Beautiful of my dreams, are no chairs.  And even now a small group of the freer spirits are following my example.  In time——­”

“If you don’t take me away, I’ll run in circles!” whispered Bob fiercely to his friend.

They escaped into the open air.

“Phew!” said Bob, straightening his long form.  “Is that what you call the good society here?”

“Good society is there,” amended Baker.  “That’s the joke.  There are lots of nice people in this little old town, people who lisp our language fluently.  They are all mixed in with the Fuzzies.”

They decided to walk home.  Bob marvelled at the impressive and substantial buildings, at the atrocious streets.  He spoke of the beautiful method of illuminating one of the thoroughfares—­by globes of light gracefully supported in clusters on branched arms either side the roadway.

“They were originally bronze—­and they went and painted them a mail-box green,” commented Baker drily.

At the hotel the night clerk, a young man, quietly dressed and with an engaging air, greeted them with just the right amount of cordiality as he handed them their keys.  Bob paused to look about him.

“This is a good hotel,” he remarked.

“It’s one of the best-managed, the best-conducted, and the best-appointed hotels in the United States,” said Baker with conviction.