government you change the heart of man.  And in other respects, too, these dreamers are at sea.  For surely we should aim at simplification of machinery.  Conceive, now, the state of affairs where everybody is more or less employed by the community—­the community, that comfortable word!—­in some patriotic business or other.  Everybody an official, all controlling each other!  It would be worse than the Spanish Inquisition.  A man could live at Toledo by subscribing to certain fixed opinions; he could be assured of a reasonable degree of privacy.  Nothing could save him, under socialism.  An insupportable world!  When people cease to reflect they become idealists.”

“I suppose they do,” replied Denis, rather dubiously.  Then it struck him that this might account for his own hazy state of mind—­this lack of occupation or guiding principle.  For the rest, he had not given much thought to such questions.  To be a politician—­it was one of the few projects which had never seriously entered his head.  After a pause, he remarked: 

“I can’t help noticing that portrait over there.  It’s a very pretty thing.”

“The little pastel?  It is a sketch of my daughter Matilda.  I did it myself when she was here last Christmas.  Poor child, she can only come for the holidays; there is no chance of a respectable education o this island.  But I can run over to see her every now and then.  You will observe I am not much of a colourist!”

“You have been parsimonious with the tints.  It reminds me of some of Lenbach’s work which I saw at Florence; it is in the same manner.”

“It appears you like art,” said the Count.  “Why not devote yourself to it?  But perhaps your English social conditions are not propitious.  Here is a letter from a friend of mind which arrived this morning; you know his name—­I will not mention it!  A well-known Academician, whose life is typical of your attitude towards art.  Such a good fellow.  He likes shooting and fishing; he is a favourite at Court, and quite an authority on dress-reform.  He now writes to ask me about some detail of Greek costume which he requires for one of his lectures to a Ladies’ Guild.  Art, to him, is not a jealous mistress; she is an indulgent companion, who will amiably close an eye and permit a few wayside flirtations to her lover—­enthusiasms for quite other ideals, and for the joys of good society in general.  That is the way to live a happy life.  It is not the way to create masterpieces.”

“I would take myself seriously, I think,” said Denis.  “I would not dissipate my energies.”

He meant it.  To be an artist—­it dawned upon him that this was his true vocation.  To renounce pleasure and discipline the mind; to live a life of self-denial, submitting himself humbly to the inspiration of the great masters. . . .  To be serene, like this old man; to avoid that facile, glib, composite note—­those monkey-tricks of cleverness. . . .

Then, after this vision had passed before his eyes like a flash, he remembered his grief.  The notion of becoming a world-famous artist lost all meaning for him.  Everything was blighted.  There was not a grain of solace to be found on earth.