"Nothing good and nothing bad? How do you mean?" "I explained it all in the preface to 'Negations.'" "'Negations'?" "Yes, I gave you a copy of it." "Oh, yes, of course. But, did you explain, for instance, that there was no such thing as bad or good grammar?" "N-no," said Soames. "Of course in art there is the good and the evil. But in life--no." He was rolling a cigarette. He had weak, white hands, not well washed, and with finger-tips much stained with nicotine. "In life there are illusions of good and evil, but"--his voice trailed away to a murmur in which the words "vieux jeu" and "rococo" were faintly audible. I think he felt he was not doing himself justice, and feared that Rothenstein was going to point out fallacies. Anyhow, he cleared his throat and said, "Parlons d'autre chose." It occurs to you that he was a fool? It didn't to me. I was young, and had not the clarity of judgment that Rothenstein already had. Soames was quite five or six years older than either of us. Also--he had written a book. It was wonderful to have written a book. If Rothenstein had not been there, I should have revered Soames. Even as it was, I respected him. And I was very near indeed to reverence when he said he had another book coming out soon. I asked if I might ask what kind of book it was to be. "My poems," he answered. Rothenstein asked if this was to be the title of the book. The poet meditated on this suggestion, but said he rather thought of giving the book no title at all. "If a book is good in itself--" he murmured, and waved his cigarette. Rothenstein objected that absence of title might be bad for the sale of a book. "If," he urged, "I went into a bookseller's and said simply, 'Have you got?' or, 'Have you a copy of?' how would they know what I wanted?" "Oh, of course I should have my name on the cover," Soames answered earnestly. "And I rather want," he added, looking hard at Rothenstein, "to have a drawing of myself as frontispiece." Rothenstein admitted that this was a capital idea, and mentioned that he was going into the country and would be there for some time. He then looked at his watch, exclaimed at the hour, paid the waiter, and went away with me to dinner. Soames remained at his post of fidelity to the glaucous witch. "Why were you so determined not to draw him?" I asked. "Draw him? Him? How can one draw a man who doesn't exist?" "He is dim," I admitted. But my mot juste fell flat. Rothenstein repeated that Soames was non-existent.