“To be sure,” Mr. Fett conceded, “if all men grasped this great truth, there would be an end of artists; and in time, by consequence, of critics, who live by them and for whom they exist.  Therefore I keep my discovery as a Platonic secret, and utter it but occasionally, in my cups, and when”—­with a severe glance at Mr. Badcock—­“the vulgar are not attending.”

Mr. Badcock woke up at once.  “On the contrary,” he explained, “I listen best with my eyes closed; a habit I acquired in Axminster Parish Church.  Indeed, I am all ears.”

“Indeed you are. . . .  Well then, as I was about to say, the secret of success in the Arts is to make other men do the work for you.  At this obviously he will excel who has learnt to appraise other men’s work, and knows exactly of what they are capable; that is to say, the Critic.  Believe me, dear friends, the happiest moment of my life will come when, as impresario I shall have realized the ambition of giving myself, as capo comico, the sack at twenty-four hours’ notice.”

“A man should know his own worth,” grumbled Rinaldo, “if only in self-defence on pay-day.”

“’Tis notorious, my dear Rinaldo, that your mere artist never does.  Intent upon expressing self, he misses the detachment which alone is Olympian; whereas the critic—­Tell me, why is an architect architectonic?  Because he sits in his parlour, pushing the brown sherry and chatting with his clients, while his clerks express their souls for him in a back office.  This lesson, O Badcocchio, I learnt from an uncle of mine, who had amassed a tidy competence by thus vicariously erecting a quite incredible number of villa residences for retired tradesmen in the midlands—­to be precise, in and around Wolverhampton.  I say vicariously, for on his deathbed it brought him inexpressible comfort that he himself had not designed these things.

“He was in many respects a remarkable man, and came near to being a great one.  His name originally was Lorenzo Smith, to which in later years he added that of Desborough—­partly for euphony, partly because the initials made to his mind a pleasing combination, partly also in pursuance of his theory of life, that he best succeeds who makes others work for him.  By annexing the Desborough patronymic—­which, however, he tactfully spelled Desboro’, to avoid conflict with the family prejudices—­he added, at the cost of a trifling fee to the Consistory Court of Canterbury, a flavour of old gentility to the artistic promise of Lorenzo, the solid commercial assurance of Smith.  Together the three proved irresistible.  He prospered.  He died worth twenty-five thousand pounds, which had indeed been fifty thousand but for an unlucky error.