"Except for a more external purity, and a higher internal corruption," replied his dragoman. "Are artists still noted for their jealousies?" asked the Angel. "They are, sir; for that is inherent in the artistic temperament, which is extremely touchy about fame." "And do they still get angry when those gentlemen--the----" "Critics," his dragoman suggested. "They get angry, sir; but critics are usually anonymous, and from excellent reasons; for not only are the passions of an angry artist very high, but the knowledge of an angry critic is not infrequently very low, especially of art. It is kinder to save life, where possible." "For my part," said the Angel, "I have little regard for human life, and consider that many persons would be better buried." "That may be," his dragoman retorted with some irritation; "'_errare est humanum_.' But I, for one, would rather be a dead human being any day than a live angel, for I think they are more charitable." "Well," said the Angel genially, "you have the prejudice of your kind. Have you an artist about the place, to show me? I do not recollect any at Madame Tussaud's." "They have taken to declining that honour. We could see one in real life if we went to Cornwall." "Why Cornwall?" "I cannot tell you, sir. There is something in the air which affects their passions." "I am hungry, and would rather go to the Savoy," said the Angel, walking on. "You are in luck," whispered his dragoman, when they had seated themselves at a table covered with prawns; "for at the next on your left is our most famous exponent of the mosaic school of novelism." "Then here goes!" replied the Angel. And, turning to his neighbour, he asked pleasantly: "How do you do, sir? What is your income?" The gentleman addressed looked up from his prawn, and replied wearily: "Ask my agent. He may conceivably possess the knowledge you require." "Answer me this, at all events," said the Angel, with more dignity, if possible: "How do you write your books? For it must be wonderful to summon around you every day the creatures of your imagination. Do you wait for afflatus?" "No," said the author; "er--no! I--er--" he added weightily, "sit down every morning." The Angel rolled his eyes and, turning to his dragoman, said in a well-bred whisper: "He sits down every morning! My Lord, how good for trade!" VI "A glass of sherry, dry, and ham sandwich, stale, can be obtained here, sir," said the dragoman; "and for dessert, the scent of parchment and bananas. We will then attend Court 45, where I shall show you how fundamentally our legal procedure has changed in the generation that has elapsed since the days of the Great Skirmish." "Can it really be that the Law has changed? I had thought it immutable," said the Angel, causing his teeth to meet with difficulty: "What will be the nature of the suit to which we shall listen?"