The reporter took it down in shorthand. “And very nice too,” he said. “I’m most grateful to you, sir, most grateful.” And he hurried away, to get to the Cattle Show before the King should arrive. Mr. Albemarle affably addressed himself to the critic of the _Morning Globe_. “I _al_ways regard this gallery,” said a loud and cheerful voice, full of bulls and canaries in chorus, “as positively a _mauvais lieu_. Such exhibitions!” And Mr. Mercaptan shrugged his shoulders expressively. He halted to wait for his companion. Mrs. Viveash had lagged behind, reading the catalogue as she slowly walked along. “It’s a complete book,” she said, “full of poems and essays and short stories even, so far as I can see.” “Oh, the usual cracker mottoes.” Mr. Mercaptan laughed. “I know the sort of thing. ‘Look after the past and the future will look after itself.’ ‘God squared minus Man squared equals Art-plus-life times Art-minus-Life.’ ‘The Higher the Art the fewer the morals’—only that’s too nearly good sense to have been invented by Lypiatt. But I know the sort of thing. I could go on like that for ever.” Mr. Mercaptan was delighted with himself. “I’ll read you one of them,” said Mrs. Viveash. “‘A picture is a chemical combination of plastic form and spiritual significance.’” “Crikey!” said Mr. Mercaptan. “‘Those who think that a picture is a matter of nothing but plastic form are like those who imagine that water is made of nothing but hydrogen.’” Mr. Mercaptan made a grimace. “What writing!” he exclaimed; “_le style c’est l’homme_. Lypiatt hasn’t got a style. Argal—inexorable conclusion—Lypiatt doesn’t exist. My word, though. Look at those horrible great nudes there. Like Carracis with cubical muscles.” “Sampson and Delilah,” said Mrs. Viveash. “Would you like me to read about them?” “Certainly not.” Mrs. Viveash did not press the matter. Casimir, she thought, must have been thinking of her when he wrote this little poem about Poets and Women, crossed genius, torments, the sweating of masterpieces. She sighed. “Those leopards are rather nice,” she said, and looked at the catalogue again. “‘An animal is a symbol and its form is significant. In the long process of adaptation, evolution has refined and simplified and shaped, till every part of the animal expresses one desire, a single idea. Man, who has become what he is, not by specialization, but by generalization, symbolizes with his body no one thing. He is a symbol of everything from the most hideous and ferocious bestiality to godhead.’” “Dear me,” said Mr. Mercaptan. A canvas of mountains and enormous clouds like nascent sculptures presented itself. “‘Aerial Alps’” Mrs. Viveash began to read. “‘Aerial Alps of amber and of snow, Junonian flesh, and bosomy alabaster Carved by the wind’s uncertain hands....’” Mr. Mercaptan stopped his ears. “Please, please,” he begged.