“Jargon!” growled Soames to himself.

The other’s boyish voice replied

“Missed it, old bean; he’s pulling your leg.  When Jove and Juno created he them, he was saying:  ‘I’ll see how much these fools will swallow.’  And they’ve lapped up the lot.”

“You young duffer!  Vospovitch is an innovator.  Don’t you see that he’s brought satire into sculpture?  The future of plastic art, of music, painting, and even architecture, has set in satiric.  It was bound to.  People are tired—­the bottom’s tumbled out of sentiment.”

“Well, I’m quite equal to taking a little interest in beauty.  I was through the War.  You’ve dropped your handkerchief, sir.”

Soames saw a handkerchief held out in front of him.  He took it with some natural suspicion, and approached it to his nose.  It had the right scent—­of distant Eau de Cologne—­and his initials in a corner.  Slightly reassured, he raised his eyes to the young man’s face.  It had rather fawn-like ears, a laughing mouth, with half a toothbrush growing out of it on each side, and small lively eyes, above a normally dressed appearance.

“Thank you,” he said; and moved by a sort of irritation, added:  “Glad to hear you like beauty; that’s rare, nowadays.”

“I dote on it,” said the young man; “but you and I are the last of the old guard, sir.”

Soames smiled.

“If you really care for pictures,” he said, “here’s my card.  I can show you some quite good ones any Sunday, if you’re down the river and care to look in.”

“Awfully nice of you, sir.  I’ll drop in like a bird.  My name’s Mont-Michael.”  And he took off his hat.

Soames, already regretting his impulse, raised his own slightly in response, with a downward look at the young man’s companion, who had a purple tie, dreadful little sluglike whiskers, and a scornful look—­as if he were a poet!

It was the first indiscretion he had committed for so long that he went and sat down in an alcove.  What had possessed him to give his card to a rackety young fellow, who went about with a thing like that?  And Fleur, always at the back of his thoughts, started out like a filigree figure from a clock when the hour strikes.  On the screen opposite the alcove was a large canvas with a great many square tomato-coloured blobs on it, and nothing else, so far as Soames could see from where he sat.  He looked at his catalogue:  “No. 32 ’The Future Town’—­Paul Post.”  ’I suppose that’s satiric too,’ he thought.  ‘What a thing!’ But his second impulse was more cautious.  It did not do to condemn hurriedly.  There had been those stripey, streaky creations of Monet’s, which had turned out such trumps; and then the stippled school; and Gauguin.  Why, even since the Post-Impressionists there had been one or two painters not to be sneezed at.  During the thirty-eight years of his connoisseur’s life, indeed, he had marked so many “movements,”