"We must do something. The true artist speaks for the age in which he lives. There is no room for the ascetic point of view in our world to-day--this is a world of the senses. Like it or not, it's true. We measure all pleasure, all experience, by their æsthetic or emotional value. We go back to the very sources of art to find a fiercer reaction. We have Piccabia, Matisse crudity gone stark; we have dissonance in harmony--DeBussey and Strauss; the Russians with their barbaric dances. We have the Irish renaissance in drama, going back to the peasant for primitive emotions. We have the bloodiest war in all times; we are primitive savages in our greed for lust and power, just as we are supermen in devising ways of exquisite, torturing death for our enemies. We are the age of the senses, my friend; we brook no denial of the flesh and its appetites." "I understand what you mean; I know it to be true; but how can I have a part in life, when perforce, I am just an onlooker?" she asked earnestly. "We will find a way. We must open the door of the nunnery, and lead Sister Jane into the world of deeds, of fight and lose, heartache and some rare joys. Do you want to come, Sister Jane?" She turned her head and looked into space beyond her window before she answered. "I shall miss the sanctuary, the quiet, and my holy saints," she said, her hand sweeping the books, "but I want to come out; for a long time, Mr. Christiansen, I've wanted so to come out." "Good. We will begin with your worldly education to-night, dear saint. We'll go to Polly's for dinner, and thence to a meeting at Cooper Union, where I am to speak. Will you come?" "Oh, yes," she cried excitedly. "It is so wonderful to have a friend and go off for dinner and talk. You're the first friend I've ever had," she added shyly. "That's a responsibility," he answered, "but I like it. I must set you a high standard." "You have. I wish I could give you something to make you happy, in exchange." "I am a _gourmet_ of people, as you are of words, Jane Judd. You give me a rare treat, a new flavour. Come, get your hat, child, and let's be about your living!" CHAPTER X With Bobs and the Chatfields away, and his uptown friends believing him to be off on a cruise, Jerry settled himself to long-neglected work, but nothing went well. He was out of work habits, he missed his intimates, he descended into the depths of discouragement and despair. It was on a day of gloom within and gloom without that he set every canvas in the studio in a row before him. He went slowly from one to another and studied them all. Into this funereal stock-taking Jane entered. The deep distress on his face stopped her. "What's the matter, Mr. Paxton?" "Jane Judd, why do you suppose I ever thought I could paint?" "Has anything happened?" "These have happened! Look at this collection of wax-works! Bad drawing, no style, paint put on with a squirt gun."