“So I do, my dear fellow, but not now,—­not at this particular present.  When I feel the warm sun on my back and breathe the soft air, I want no more; they are more than Art can give—­they are Nature, and, of course, it goes without saying that Art can never compete with Nature in creating human pleasure.  I mean no disparagement of your work, Kew, or any artist’s work; but I can’t endure Art except in winter, when everything (almost) must be artificial to be endurable.  A winter may come in one’s life—­I wonder if it will?—­when one would rather look at the picture of a woman than at the woman herself.  Meantime I no more need pictures than I need fires; I warm both hands and heart at the fire of life.”

“Ah!” said Kew, with a wistful lack of comprehension.

“That’s why I believe,” said Courtney, with a sudden turn of reflection, “there is in warm countries no Art of our small domestic kind.”

“Just so,” said Kew; while Dingley Dell, the Art critic, made a note of Courtney’s words.

“Look here!” exclaimed Dr. Embro, an old scientific man of Scottish extraction, who, in impatience with such transcendental talk, had taken up ‘The St. James’s Gazette.’  “What do you make of this queer case at the Hotel-Dieu in Paris?  I see it’s taken from ‘The Daily Telegraph;’” and he began to read it.

“Oh,” said Kew, “we all read that this morning.”

“Dr. Embro,” said Courtney, again looking idly out of window, “is like a French journal:  full of the news of the day before yesterday.”

“Have you read it yourself, Julius?” asked Embro, amid the laughter of his neighbours.

“No,” said Julius carelessly; “and if it’s a hospital case I don’t want to read it.”

“What!” said Embro, with heavy irony.  “You say that?  You, a pupil of the great Dubois and the greater Charbon!  But here comes a greater than Charbon—­the celebrated Dr. Lefevre himself.  Come now, Lefevre, you tell us what you think of this Paris hospital case.”

“Presently, Embro,” said Lefevre, who had just perceived his friend Courtney.  “Ha, Julius!” said he, crossing to him and taking his hand; “you’re looking uncommonly well.”

“Yes,” said Julius, “I am well.”

“And where have you been all this while?” asked the doctor.

“Oh,” said Julius, turning his gaze again out of window, “I have been rambling everywhere, between Dan and Beersheba.”

“And all is vanity, eh?” said the doctor.

“Well,” said Julius, looking at him, “that depends—­that very much depends.  But can there be any question of vanity or vexation in this sweet, glorious sunshine?” and he stretched out his hands as if he burgeoned forth to welcome it.

“Perhaps not,” said Lefevre.  “Come and sit down and let us talk.”

They were retiring from the window when Embro’s voice again sounded at Lefevre’s elbow—­“Come now, Lefevre; what’s the meaning of that Paris case?”