“Overwhelming?  That is perhaps because you do not see the movement in its continuity, because you have not traced the stream to its source.  I can understand your feelings.  But one need not be overwhelmed by these men.  They were lovable folks, who played with their art like some child that has discovered a long-lost toy.  It is a pity that their activities were so hampered by the conventions of religious dogma.  Viewed by itself, the Renaissance may seem overwhelming; it shoots up like a portentous lily out of the blood-drenched soil of a thousand battlefields.  Let me take you to its real source.”

He showed him that little statuette, the Locri Faun.  Denis was enchanted by it.

“You have heard of Sir Herbert Street?  He also thinks highly of this thing.  He is now adviser in art matters to Mr. van Koppen who is a patron of mine and who, I hear, will arrive to-morrow or the day after.”

“Street?  I met him at my mother’s house.  Wasn’t he at South Kensington?  A great man for dining out.  You cannot pick up an evening paper without reading something about him.  That kind of man!  All the same, he wrote a good book on the Siena School.  I liked it, didn’t you?”

“It is a fair appreciation, from the collector’s point of view.  He has stayed with me here once or twice, and given me reason to form a high opinion of his capacities.  Now if you will compare this Faun with your Florentine art, you will see what I mean by going to the fountain.  There is a difference not only in technique, but in outlook.  The man who wrought this did not trouble about you, or me, or himself.  He had not moods.  His art is purely intellectual; he stands aloof, like a glacier.  Here the spring issued, crystal-clear.  As the river swells in size it grows turbid and discoloured with alien elements—­personality, emotions.”

“I have noticed that,” said Denis.  “It is what we call the malady of thought.  This Faun, you say, was found on the mainland yonder?”

“Near the site of old Locri, on a piece of ground which still belongs to me.  I suspect there are still a good many Greek relics to be excavated on the site.  We have discovered a Demeter some years ago; a mutilated head in marble; it is now in Paris.  You can see the very place from my roof here, on bright days.  These men, Mr. Denis, were our masters.  Do not be misled by what you are told of the wanton luxury of those shores; do not forget that your view of that age has filtered through Roman stoicism and English puritanism which speak with envy lurking at their hearts—­the envy of the incomplete creature for him who dares express himself.  A plague has infected the world—­the plague of repression.  Don’t you think that the man who made this Faun was entitled to dine well?”

“I cannot quite make it out,” said Denis, still examining the statuette.

“Ah!  How does it make you feel?”

“Uneasy.”