“Number seventeen,” said Mrs. Viveash, “is called ‘Woman on a Cosmic background,’” A female figure stood leaning against a pillar on a hilltop, and beyond was a blue night with stars. “Underneath is written: ‘For one at least, she is more than the starry universe.’” Mrs. Viveash remembered that Lypiatt had once said very much that sort of thing to her. “So many of Casimir’s things remind me,” she said, “of those Italian vermouth advertisements. You know—Cinzano, Bonomelli and all these. I wish they didn’t. This woman in white with her head in the Great Bear....” She shook her head. “Poor Casimir.” Mr. Mercaptan roared and squealed with laughter. “Bonomelli,” he said; “that’s precisely it. What a critic, Myra! I take off my hat.” They moved on. “And what’s this grand transformation scene?” he asked. Mrs. Viveash looked at the catalogue. “It’s called ‘The Sermon on the Mount,’” she said. “And really, do you know, I rather like it. All that crowd of figures slanting up the hill and the single figure on the top—it seems to me very dramatic.” “My _dear_,” protested Mr. Mercaptan. “And in spite of everything,” said Mrs. Viveash, feeling suddenly and uncomfortably that she had somehow been betraying the man, “he’s really very nice, you know. Very nice, indeed.” Her expiring voice sounded very decidedly. “Ah, _ces femmes_,” exclaimed Mr. Mercaptan, “_ces femmes_! They’re all Pasiphaes and Ledas. They all in their hearts prefer beasts to men, savages to civilized beings. _Even_ you, Myra, I _really_ believe.” He shook his head. Mrs. Viveash ignored the outburst. “Very nice,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Only rather a bore....” Her voice expired altogether. They continued their round of the gallery. CHAPTER VIII Critically, in the glasses of Mr. Bojanus’s fitting-room, Gumbril examined his profile, his back view. Inflated, the Patent Small-Clothes bulged, bulged decidedly, though with a certain gracious opulence that might, in a person of the other sex, have seemed only deliciously natural. In him, however, Gumbril had to admit, the opulence seemed a little misplaced and paradoxical. Still, if one has to suffer in order to be beautiful, one must also expect to be ugly in order not to suffer. Practically, the trousers were a tremendous success. He sat down heavily on the hard wooden bench of the fitting-room and was received as though on a lap of bounding resiliency; the Patent Small-Clothes, there was no doubt, would be proof even against marble. And the coat, he comforted himself, would mask with its skirts the too decided bulge. Or if it didn’t, well, there was no help for it. One must resign oneself to bulging, that was all. “Very nice,” he declared at last.