“Then leave your future with me,” said Mr. French, rubbing his hands as he moved away. “You didn't mean that?” asked Redgrave. “A little. One must live. Higher art, to use the cant phrase, would satisfy one's soul's needs better--but it would not those of the body.” Redgrave looked at her for a moment, as if meditating over her rich colouring and fine vitality. A body such as hers had its needs. He smiled a little sadly and shook his head. “You would not sacrifice your life for your art?” “No,” replied Clytie, with quick frankness, “I wouldn't. The fuller one's life, the fuller one's art. The one is a reflection of the other. At least it is so with me.” “I'll paint your portrait one of these days for nothing,” said Redgrave somewhat irrelevantly. Clytie flushed a little at the compliment. “What are you going to put into me?” “The question whether even the most emancipated of young women ever has art in her soul,” said Redgrave, with a quiet smile. “I am going to paint a picture some day that will astonish you,” replied Clytie, with a laugh. “Ah! So is everyone. When will that some day be? I hardly know a painter or a writer or a musician that has not something he is going to do some day--a three-act drama all ready, bar transcription on paper--a masterpiece all complete, bar the mechanical transference to canvas.” “Oh, Mr. Redgrave, if you are going to moralise like that, I'll report you to Mr. Farquharson. You had much better sit down and take me round the studios.” But Redgrave was carried off before he had time to begin, and Clytie joined a large group standing and sitting round the fire. They were the younger, less responsible members of the company, and were talking nonsense. Singleton, a clean-shaven, red-faced man and a minor poet, was explaining what he called the Physical Basis of Life. Professor Huxley, by the way, has treated the subject differently. “The man who cannot dine,” Mr. Singleton was saying, “cannot feel. He has not his proper equipment of senses. He is an imperfection, a waster.” “That does not apply to women, I hope,” said Mrs. Tredegar, a languid, well-preserved woman, who was suspected of hankerings after a long defunct æstheticism. “I have been feeling all my life--and I can't remember to have ever dined.” “I did once--at the Café Anglais. By Jove, it was good!” interpolated a fair-haired youth, who leaped eagerly at objectivities in the conversation. “Your enthusiasm does you credit!” said Singleton. “You'll die yet, of a hopeless passion.” Then, turning to Mrs. Tredegar: “Of course it applies to women. _La femme qui dîne, aime_. Put it into French, and you see the force of it at once.” “Ah, but if you put it the other way about. _La femme qui aime_----It is horrible; it takes all the romance away,” said Mrs. Tredegar.