“Oh! Well you know, Nannie, I was just going to say that I don’t have any more use for these new movements in art than for the moralizing and story telling things of the last century. These cubist and futuristic cranks forget the same thing the others do. That is that the artist’s purpose is to create beauty. Why can’t they give us the beauty they see and let us judge of it, instead of trying to tell us something about it we aren’t interested in. Now take Inness, for instance----” “I just love him! Aren’t his things fine!” Nannie chimed in. John rumpled his hair. “Yes, an Inness,” he repeated. “Doesn’t it give you enough? Can’t you look at it and hear the wind in the trees? It isn’t only atmosphere, it’s the beauty of nature in its simplicity, and that’s what we want in art--simplicity.” He looked around the table. “You’ve thought a lot about such things,” exclaimed Mrs. Merwent admiringly. “It isn’t so much an intellectual conception as a feeling for the true thing that counts in art, Nannie,” replied John. “That’s what I mean,” she explained. “Your dinner’ll get cold, dear,” interrupted Lucy. John began to eat again and silence reigned for some moments. Lucy turned to Jim. “The croquettes aren’t all gone yet. Have another?” she invited. “No, thanks.” “I’ll take one, Lucy, if you don’t mind,” interposed Nannie. Lucy passed the dish hastily. “Why of course, Mamma.” Silence descended again on the group. “We seem to be a quiet family,” Mrs. Merwent observed after a few moments. John looked up from his plate. “What’s the matter with you, Jim? And you too, Lucy?” he inquired, glancing from one of them to the other. “It seems as though a funeral had struck the place. Neither of you have a word to say tonight.” “Seems to me I’m talking as much as usual,” said Jim defensively, laughing a little. “The trouble is that you’ve quit talking. We always listen to you.” “Rot!” retorted John. “You haven’t said half a dozen words.” “I thought you all discussed the most abstruse things,” put in Nannie. “We do,” avowed John. “I can’t understand what’s come over them.” “Do talk about something profound, Mr. Sprague. I love to listen even if I can’t join in the discussion,” she urged. “You’re really mistaken, Mrs. Merwent. I talk very little,” Jim protested. “John’s joking.” “I suppose it depends on the company you’re in,” she parried. “I talked a lot to you before dinner.” Jim turned his eyes on her. Nannie avoided his gaze. “My friend Professor Walsh, who is head of the school at home, has a better opinion of me than some other people,” she declared after a pause, ignoring Jim’s remark and speaking to the table at large. “What nonsense, Mamma!” Lucy interrupted gently. “Whoever made any comparison!” “Comparisons can be made by inference,” Mrs. Merwent insisted with dignity. “Professor Walsh knows all kinds of erudite things and _he_ never considers it any condescension to talk to poor little me!” she finished.