Carl listened to the seething argument that followed, with the feelings of one who hears an exquisitely worthless routine of sound. He was always amazed at the fact that people could argue about art--a word pilfered from that last desperate undulation with which an ego decorates the slavery of mud. Arguments on art to him were like the antics of a sign-painter defending the precious label which he has painted upon certain of the more indiscreet and impossible longings within him--a piece of inflexible nonsense. He felt that works of art so-called could be described and admired with a novel and independently creative bow of words, but never defended and explained. Books on art were to him a futile and microscopical attempt to inject logic into a decorative curiosity. As he listened to the wrestling sounds of the present argument, words within him began to flatter his indifference. “While Kone is talking, Jenesco sits, trying to frame his reply and paying little heed to Kone’s words,” he said to himself. “If Jenesco hears a point that he has not previously considered he will make a hasty attempt to shift his answer--a quick sword-thrust at the new opponent--and then proceed to forget about the matter. Serious arguments might be of value if they were not windy and elaborate. If men could decide to condense their views into neat typewritten sheets, carried in a coat pocket and distributed among people, they could save a great deal of cheated energy.” “The poet has been sitting here like an amused statue,” said Kone, after the argument had collapsed to the usual stand still. “Come, we are waiting for you to flay us.” “Splendid. Another tense battle. Haven’t you had enough?” said Carl. “I would suggest that we hold a debate on whether that spider on the wall will crawl into the sunlight near the window, or whether it will remain in the shade. In this way we can speculate upon how much the laws of chance may alter the spider’s conception of the universe.” “Get away with that satirical pose!” cried Jenesco.