The company were somewhat overcome by this unexpected lecture.  Sir Charles, feeling that such views bore adversely on him, and were somehow iconoclastic and low-lived, was about to make a peevish retort, when Erskine forestalled him by asking Trefusis what idea he had formed of the future of the arts.  He replied promptly.  “Photography perfected in its recently discovered power of reproducing color as well as form!  Historical pictures replaced by photographs of tableaux vivants formed and arranged by trained actors and artists, and used chiefly for the instruction of children.  Nine-tenths of painting as we understand it at present extinguished by the competition of these photographs, and the remaining tenth only holding its own against them by dint of extraordinary excellence!  Our mistuned and unplayable organs and pianofortes replaced by harmonious instruments, as manageable as barrel organs!  Works of fiction superseded by interesting company and conversation, and made obsolete by the human mind outgrowing the childishness that delights in the tales told by grownup children such as novelists and their like!  An end to the silly confusion, under the one name of Art, of the tomfoolery and make-believe of our play-hours with the higher methods of teaching men to know themselves!  Every artist an amateur, and a consequent return to the healthy old disposition to look on every man who makes art a means of money-getting as a vagabond not to be entertained as an equal by honest men!”

“In which case artists will starve, and there will be no more art.”

“Sir,” said Trefusis, excited by the word, “I, as a Socialist, can tell you that starvation is now impossible, except where, as in England, masterless men are forcibly prevented from producing the food they need.  And you, as an artist, can tell me that at present great artists invariably do starve, except when they are kept alive by charity, private fortune, or some drudgery which hinders them in the pursuit of their vocation.”

“Oh!” said Erskine.  “Then Socialists have some little sympathy with artists after all.”

“I fear,” said Trefusis, repressing himself and speaking quietly again, “that when a Socialist hears of a hundred pounds paid for a drawing which Andrea del Sarto was glad to sell for tenpence, his heart is not wrung with pity for the artist’s imaginary loss as that of a modern capitalist is.  Yet that is the only way nowadays of enlisting sympathy for the old masters.  Frightful disability, to be out of the reach of the dearest market when you want to sell your drawings!  But,” he added, giving himself a shake, and turning round gaily, “I did not come here to talk shop.  So—­pending the deluge—­let us enjoy ourselves after our manner.”

“No,” said Jane.  “Please go on about Art.  It’s such a relief to hear anyone talking sensibly about it.  I hate etching.  It makes your eyes sore—­at least the acid gets into Sir Charles’s, and the difference between the first and second states is nothing but imagination, except that the last state is worse than the—­here’s luncheon!”