“Yes, sir,” answered his dragoman, “for it is _The Messiah_ in ragtime. No time is wasted, you notice; all, even pleasure, is intensively cultivated, on the lines of least resistance, thanks to the feverishness engendered in us by the Great Skirmish, when no one knew if he would have another chance, and to the subsequent need for fostering industry. But whether we really enjoy ourselves is perhaps a question to answer which you must examine the English character.” “That I refuse to do,” said the Angel. “And you are wise, sir, for it is a puzzler, and many have cracked their heads over it. But have we not been here long enough? We can pursue our researches into the higher realms of art to-morrow.” A beam from the Angel’s lustrous eyes fell on a lady at the next table. “Yes, perhaps we had better go,” he sighed. V “And so it is through the fields of true art that we shall walk this morning?” said the Angel Æthereal. “Such as they are in this year of Peace 1947,” responded his dragoman, arresting him before a statue; “for the development of this hobby has been peculiar since you were here in 1910, when the childlike and contortionist movement was just beginning to take hold of the British.” “Whom does this represent?” asked the Angel. “A celebrated publicist, recently deceased at a great age. You see him unfolded by this work of multiform genius, in every aspect known to art, religion, nature, and the population. From his knees downwards he is clearly devoted to nature, and is portrayed as about to enter his bath. From his waist to his knees he is devoted to religion--mark the complete disappearance of the human aspect. From his neck to his waist he is devoted to public affairs; observe the tweed coat, the watch-chain, and other signs of practical sobriety. But the head is, after all, the crown of the human being, and is devoted to art. This is why you cannot make out that it is a head. Note its pyramidal severity, its cunning little ears, its box-built, water-tightal structure. The hair you note to be in flames. Here we have the touch of beauty--the burning shrub. In the whole you will observe that aversion from natural form and the single point of view, characteristic of all twentieth-century æsthetics. The whole thing is a very great masterpiece of childlike contortionism. To do things as irresponsibly as children and contortionists--what a happy discovery of the line of least resistance in art that was! Mark, by the way, this exquisite touch about the left hand.” “It appears to be deformed,” said the Angel, going a step nearer.