“Ah, he is marvelous, wonderful! I am transported by the beauty and the depth of it all!” It was Mrs. W. talking and I could not help rejoicing in the quality of her accent. Nothing is so pleasing to me in a woman of culture and refinement as that additional tang of remoteness which a foreign accent lends. If only all the lovely, cultured women of the world could speak with a foreign accent in their native tongue I would like it better. It lends a touch of piquancy not otherwise obtainable. Our luncheon party was complete now and we would probably have gone immediately into the dining-room except for another picture--by Piccasso. Let me repeat here that before Barfleur called my attention to Piccasso’s cubical uncertainty in the London Exhibition, I had never heard of him. Here in a dark corner of the room was the nude torso of a consumptive girl, her ribs showing, her cheeks colorless and sunken, her nose a wasted point, her eyes as hungry and sharp and lustrous as those of a bird. Her hair was really no hair--strings. And her thin bony arms and shoulders were pathetic, decidedly morbid in their quality. To add to the morgue-like aspect of the composition, the picture was painted in a pale bluish-green key. I wish to state here that now, after some little lapse of time, this conception--the thought and execution of it--is growing upon me. I am not sure that this work which has rather haunted me is not much more than a protest--the expression and realization of a great temperament. But at the moment it struck me as dreary, gruesome, decadent, and I said as much when asked for my impression. “Gloomy! Morbid!” Mrs. W. fired in her quite lovely accent. “What has that to do with art?” “Luncheon is served, Madam!” The double doors of the dining-room were flung open. I found myself sitting between Mrs. W. and Miss H. “I was so glad to hear you say you didn’t like it,” Miss H. applauded, her eyes sparkling, her lip moving with a delicate little smile. “You know, I abhor those things. They _are_ decadent like the rest of France and England. We are going backward instead of forward--I am quite sure. We have not the force we once had. It is all a race after pleasure and living and an interest in subjects of that kind. I am quite sure it isn’t healthy, normal art. I am sure life is better and brighter than that.” “I am inclined to think so, at times, myself,” I replied. We talked further and I learned to my surprise that she suspected England to be decadent as a whole, falling behind in brain, brawn and spirit and that she thought America was much better. “Do you know,” she observed, “I really think it would be a very good thing for us if we were conquered by Germany.”