She wished she had Craven with her to share in her silent irony. At that moment she felt some of the very common conceit of the rich dilettante, who tastes but who never creates, for whom indeed most of the creation is arduously accomplished. “They sweat for me, exhaust themselves for me, tear each other to pieces for me! If I were not here, if the world contained no such products as Beryl Van Tuyn and her like, female and male, what would all the Garstins, and Jenningses and Smiths and Enid Blunts do?” And she felt superior in her incapacity to create because of her capacity to judge. Wrongly she might, and probably did, judge, but she and her like judged, spent much of their lives in eagerly judging. And the poor creators, whatever they might say, whatever airs they might give themselves, toiled to gain the favourable judgment of the innumerable Beryl Van Tuyns. Closing time put an end at last to the fracas of tongues. Even geniuses must be driven forth from the electric light to the stars, however unwilling to go into a healthy atmosphere. There was a general movement. Miss Van Tuyn put on her hat and fur coat, the latter with the assistance of Jennings. Garstin slipped into a yellow and brown ulster, and jammed a soft hat on to his head with its thick tangle of hair. He lit another cigar and waved his hand to Cora, who was on her way out with a friend. “A free woman--by God!” he said once more, swinging round to where Miss Van Tuyn was standing between Jennings and Thapoulos. “I’ll paint her again. I’ll make a masterpiece of her.” “I’m sure you will. But now walk with me to the Hyde Park Hotel. It’s on your way to Chelsea.” “She doesn’t care whether I paint her or not. Cora doesn’t care. Art means nothing to her. She’s out for life, hunks of life. She’s after life like a hungry dog after the refuse on a scrap heap. That’s why I’ll paint her. She’s hungry. Look at her face.”