She took a sip at her ‘cordial,’ watching with artistic appreciation the gay scene in the Manor dining-room—­the twinkling lights on the silver and glass and flowers—­the elegant dresses of the women,—­the jewels that flashed like starbeams on the lovely neck and shoulders of Lady Beaulyon,—­the ripples of gold-auburn in Maryllia’s hair,—­ it was a picture that radiated with a thousand colours on the eye and the brain, and was certainly one destined, so far as many of those who formed a part of it were concerned, never to be forgotten.  Not that there was anything very remarkable or brilliant in the conversation at the dinner-table,—­there never is nowadays.  Peeple dine with their friends merely to eat, not to talk.  One never by any chance hears so much even as an echo of wit or wisdom.  Occasionally a note of scandal is struck,—­and more often than not, a questionable anecdote is related, calculated to bring ’a blush to the cheek of the Young Person,’ if a Young Person who can blush still exists, and happens to be present.  But as a rule, the general habitude of the dining class is to discourse in a very desultory and inconsequential, not to say stupid, style, and the guests at the Manor proved no exception to the rule.  Sir Morton Pippitt fired off bumptious observations at Walden, who paid no heed to them—­Bruce Ittlethwaite of Ittlethwaite Park, found a congenial spirit in Lord Charlemont, and talked sport right through the repast—­and Louis Gigue enlivened the table by a sudden discussion with Mr. Marius Longford, relative to the position of art in Great Britain.

“Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed, with a snap of his fingers—­“Ze art is dead in Angleterre,—­zere is no musique, ze poesie.  Zis is ze land of ze A-penny journal—­ze musique, ze poesie, ze science, ze politique, ze sentiment,—­one A-penny!  Bah!  Ca, ce, n’est pas possible!—­zis pauvre pays is kill avec ze vulgarite of ze cheap!  Ze people are for ze cheap—­for ze photographic, instead of ze picture--ze gramophone, instead of ze artist fingers avec ze brain—­et ze literature—­it is ze cheap ‘imitation de Zola,’ qui obtient les eloges du monde critique a Londres.  Vous ecrivez?”—­and he shook his finger at Longford—­“Bien’!  Ecrivez un roman qui est sain, pure et noble—­et ze A-penny man vill moque de ca—­mais—­ecrivez of ze dirt of ze human naturel, et voila!  Ze A-penny man say ’Bon!  Ah que c’est l’art!  Donnes moi l’ordure que je peux sentir!  C’est naturel!  C’est divin!  C’est l’art!’”

A murmur, half of laughter, half of shocked protest, went round the table.

“I think,” said Mr. Longford, with a pale smile—­“that according to the school of the higher criticism, we must admit the natural to be the only divine.”

Gigue’s rolling eyes gleamed under his shaggy hair.

“Je ne comprends pas!”—­he said—­“Ven ze pig squeak, c’est naturel—­ ce n’est pas divin!  Ven ze man scratch ze flea, c’est naturel—­ce n’est pas divin!  Ze art ne desire pas ze picture of ze flea!  Ze literature n’existe pas pour ze squeak of ze pig!  Ah, bah!  L’art,—­ c’est l’imagination—­l’ideal—­c’est le veritable Dieu en l’homme!”