Mr. Upjohn turned on both electric lights in his studio for George to study these interesting productions, at which our friend gazed with a feeling of baffled perplexity and the agonized certainty that he would have to say something about them, and that what he would say would inevitably be wrong. Fortunately, Mr. Upjohn was extremely vain and highly nervous. He stood behind George, coughing and jerking himself about agitatedly: “What I mean to say is,” he said, puncturing his discourse with coughs, “there you’ve got it.” “Yes, yes, of course.” “What I mean is, you’ve got precise expression of precise emotion.” “Just what I was going to say.” “You see, when you’ve got that, what I mean is, you’ve got something.” “Why, of course!” “You see, what I mean to say is, if you get two or three intelligent people to _see_ the thing, then you’ve got it. I mean you won’t get those damned blockheaded sons of bitches like Picasso and Augustus John to see it, I mean, it simply smashes them, you see.” “Did you expect them to?” “You see, what you’ve got is complete originality _and_ The Tradition. One doesn’t worry about the hacks, you see, but what I mean to say, one does _mildly_ suppose Picasso had a few gleams of intelligence, but what I mean is they won’t _take_ anything new.” “I get the originality, of course, but I admit I don’t quite see the traditional side of the movement.” Mr. Upjohn sighed pettishly and waved his head from side to side in commiserating contempt. “Of course, you _wouldn’t_. What intelligence you have was ruined by your lack of education, and your native obtuseness makes you instinctively prefer the academic. I mean, can’t you SEE that the proportions of Decomposition-Cosmos are exactly those of the Canopic vase in the Filangieri-Museum at Naples?” “How could I see that,” said George, rather annoyed, “since I’ve never been to Naples?” “That’s what I mean to say,” exclaimed Mr. Upjohn triumphantly, “you simply have no education _what-so-ever!_” “Well, but what about the other?” said George, desiring to be placable, “is that in the Canopic vase tradition?” “Christ-in-petticoats, NO! I thought even you’d see _that_. What I mean is, can’t you _see_ it?” “They might be free adaptations of Greek vase painting?” said George tentatively, hoping to soothe this excitable and irritated genius. Mr. Upjohn flung his palette knife on the floor. “You’re _too_ stupid, George. What I mean is the proportion and placing and colour-values are exactly in the best tradition of American-Indian blankets, and what I mean is, when you’ve got that, well, I mean, you’ve got something!” “Of course, of course, it _was_ stupid of me not to see. Forgive me, I’ve been working at hack articles all day, and my mind’s a bit muzzy.” “I mildly supposed so!”