Elfrida let her eyes tell her appreciation, and also the fact that she would take courage now, she was gaining confidence.  “I’m glad you like them,” she said.  “Howells would do if he would stop writing about virtuous sewing-girls, and give us some real romans psychologiques.  But he is too much afraid of soiling his hands, that monsieur; his betes humaines are always conventionalized, and generally come out at the end wearing the halo of the redeemed.  He always reminds me of Cruikshank’s picture of the ghost being put out by the extinguisher in the ‘Christmas Carol.’  His genius is the ghost, and conventionality is the extinguisher.  But it is genius, so it’s a pity.”

“It seems to me that Howells deals honestly with his materials,” Janet said, instinctively stilling the jar of Elfrida’s regardless note.  She was so pretty, this new creature, and she had such original ways.  Janet must let her talk about romans psychologiques, or worse things, if she wanted to.  “To me he has a tremendous appearance of sincerity, psychological and other.  But do you know, I don’t think the English or American people are exactly calculated to reward the sort of vivisection you mean.  The bete is too conscious of his moral fibre when he’s respectable, and when he isn’t respectable he doesn’t commit picturesque crimes, he steals and boozes.  I dare say he’s bestial enough, but pure unrelieved filth can’t be transmuted into literature, and as a people we’re perfectly devoid of that extraordinary artistic nature that it makes such a foil for in the Latins.  That is really the only excuse the naturalists have.”

“Excuse!” Elfrida repeated, with a bewildered look.  “You had Wainwright,” she added hastily.

“Nous nous en felicitons! We’ve got him still—­in Madame Tussaud’s,” cried Janet “He poisoned for money in cold blood—­not exactly an artistic vice!  Oh, he won’t do!”—­she laughed triumphantly—­“if he did write charming things about the Renaissance!  Besides, he illustrates my case; among us he was a phenomenon, like the elephant-headed man.  Phenomena are for the scientists.  You don’t mean to tell me that any literature that pretends to call itself artistic has a right to touch them.”

By this time they had absolutely forgotten that up to twenty minutes ago they had never seen each other before.  Already they had mutely and unconsciously begun to rejoice that they had come together; already each of them promised herself the exploration of the other’s nature, with the preliminary idea that it would be a satisfying, at least an interesting process.  The impulse made Elfrida almost natural, and Janet perceived this with quick self-congratulation.  Already she had made up her mind that this manner was a pretty mask which it would be her business to remove.

“But—­but you’re not in it!” Elfrida returned.  “Pardon me, but you’re not there, you know.  Art has no ideal but truth, and to conventionalize truth is to damn it In the most commonplace material there is always truth, but here they conventionalize it out of all—­”