And Soames began that round which never tired him.  He had not anticipated much intelligence from one who had mistaken a copy for an original, but as they passed from section to section, period to period, he was startled by the young man’s frank and relevant remarks.  Natively shrewd himself, and even sensuous beneath his mask, Soames had not spent thirty-eight years over his one hobby without knowing something more about pictures than their market values.  He was, as it were, the missing link between the artist and the commercial public.  Art for art’s sake and all that, of course, was cant.  But aesthetics and good taste were necessary.  The appreciation of enough persons of good taste was what gave a work of art its permanent market value, or in other words made it “a work of art.”  There was no real cleavage.  And he was sufficiently accustomed to sheep-like and unseeing visitors, to be intrigued by one who did not hesitate to say of Mauve:  “Good old haystacks!” or of James Maris:  “Didn’t he just paint and paper ’em!  Mathew was the real swell, sir; you could dig into his surfaces!” It was after the young man had whistled before a Whistler, with the words, “D’you think he ever really saw a naked woman, sir?” that Soames remarked: 

“What are you, Mr. Mont, if I may ask?”

“I, sir?  I was going to be a painter, but the War knocked that.  Then in the trenches, you know, I used to dream of the Stock Exchange, snug and warm and just noisy enough.  But the Peace knocked that, shares seem off, don’t they?  I’ve only been demobbed about a year.  What do you recommend, sir?”

“Have you got money?”

“Well,” answered the young man, “I’ve got a father; I kept him alive during the War, so he’s bound to keep me alive now.  Though, of course, there’s the question whether he ought to be allowed to hang on to his property.  What do you think about that, sir?”

Soames, pale and defensive, smiled.

“The old man has fits when I tell him he may have to work yet.  He’s got land, you know; it’s a fatal disease.”

“This is my real Goya,” said Soames dryly.

“By George!  He was a swell.  I saw a Goya in Munich once that bowled me middle stump.  A most evil-looking old woman in the most gorgeous lace.  He made no compromise with the public taste.  That old boy was ‘some’ explosive; he must have smashed up a lot of convention in his day.  Couldn’t he just paint!  He makes Velasquez stiff, don’t you think?”

“I have no Velasquez,” said Soames.

The young man stared.  “No,” he said; “only nations or profiteers can afford him, I suppose.  I say, why shouldn’t all the bankrupt nations sell their Velasquez and Titians and other swells to the profiteers by force, and then pass a law that any one who holds a picture by an Old Master—­see schedule—­must hang it in a public gallery?  There seems something in that.”

“Shall we go down to tea?” said Soames.