In recognition of these transmitted gifts Paul, on leaving Harvard, was sent to Paris with a tutor, and established in a studio in which nothing was ever done.  He could not paint, and recognized the fact early enough to save himself much wasted labor and his friends many painful efforts in dissimulation.  But he brought back a touching enthusiasm for the forms of beauty which an old civilization had revealed to him and an apostolic ardour in the cause of their dissemination.

He had paused in his harangue to take in my ill-timed parenthesis, and the color mounted slowly to his thin cheek-bones.

“It is an ugly room,” he owned, as though he had noticed the library for the first time.

The desk was carved at the angles with the heads of helmeted knights with long black-walnut moustaches.  The red cloth top was worn thread-bare, and patterned like a map with islands and peninsulas of ink; and in its centre throned a massive bronze inkstand representing a Syrian maiden slumbering by a well beneath a palm-tree.

“The fact is,” I said, walking home that evening with Ned Halidon, “old Paul will never do anything, for the simple reason that he’s too stingy.”

Ned, who was an idealist, shook his handsome head.  “It’s not that, my dear fellow.  He simply doesn’t see things when they’re too close to him.  I’m glad you woke him up to that desk.”

The next time I dined with Paul he said, when we entered the library, and I had gently rejected one of his cheap cigars in favour of a superior article of my own:  “Look here, I’ve been looking round for a decent writing-table.  I don’t care, as a rule, to turn out old things, especially when they’ve done good service, but I see now that this is too monstrous—­”

“For an apostle of beauty to write his evangel on,” I agreed, “it is a little inappropriate, except as an awful warning.”

Paul colored.  “Well, but, my dear fellow, I’d no idea how much a table of this kind costs.  I find I can’t get anything decent—­the plainest mahogany—­under a hundred and fifty.”  He hung his head, and pretended not to notice that I was taking out my own cigar.

“Well, what’s a hundred and fifty to you?” I rejoined.  “You talk as if you had to live on a book-keeper’s salary, with a large family to support.”

He smiled nervously and twirled the ring on his thin finger.  “I know—­I know—­that’s all very well.  But for twenty tables that I don’t buy I can send some fellow abroad and unseal his eyes.”

“Oh, hang it, do both!” I exclaimed impatiently; but the writing-table was never bought.  The library remained as it was, and so did the contention between Halidon and myself, as to whether this inconsistent acceptance of his surroundings was due, on our friend’s part, to a congenital inability to put his hand in his pocket, or to a real unconsciousness of the ugliness that happened to fall inside his point of vision.