“You _do_ mutilate it. The school that influences you mutilates truth as was mutilated the body of Osiris! The school that stains you with its shadow is a school of mutilators. I’m not squeamish, Barry. I’m for plain writing. The truths leered at or slurred over or ignored by convention can be decently presented in proportion to their importance in any story. “But satyrism in art, the satanism that worships ugliness, the perversion that twists, distorts, mutilates the human body, the human mind, nature, the only flawless masterpiece,--no, I’m not for these. I tell you that the entire modernist movement is but a celebration of The Black Mass. Crazy and sane, _that_ is what the leaders in this school are doing. Their god is Anti-Christ; their ritual destruction. And I do not believe that Christ, all merciful, will ever say to the least guilty among these--‘Absolvo te.’” There was a long silence. Finally Annan said: “On your side you are more savage than I on mine. I am no missionary----” “_I_ am. The human being who is not is negligible. I tell you that beauty is good and right. It is salvation. It is the goal. And I tell you that the use of evil is to throw beauty in brighter, more perfect relief. That is its _only_ use in art. “And it never should be the theme, nor bask in the spotlight, nor centre the composition. All its arrows point inward to that one divine and ultimate spot--the touch of highest value in Rembrandt’s canvasses--the supreme pinpoint of clarity and glory--Beauty--symmetrical, flawless, eternal.” * * * * * As they left the club together: “Almost thou persuadest me,” said Annan lightly. Parting, they shook hands: “No, not I,” said Coltfoot. “Some sorrow will do that.... Or some woman.” Annan turned down Fifth Avenue much amused. CHAPTER XVII Early in June Rosalind Shore celebrated the 365th performance of her musical comedy. She got Annan on the telephone just as he was leaving his house to dine wherever fancy suggested. “Harry Sneyd is giving a supper dance for me,” she explained, “and he wants a bunch of names that will look well in to-morrow’s papers. Do you mind coming, Barry? Or have you become too darned great to let the public suspect that you know how to frivol?” “Pity your mother didn’t spank the sarcasm out of you while she was getting busy,” he retorted. “Where is the frivolling and what time?” “You nice boy! It’s after the show in the directors’ suite at _The Looking Glass_. Harry’s a director there, also. Mr. Shill let him have the suite. Thank you so much, Barry; I do want all the celebrities I can get, and our publicity department will be grateful to you.” “Glad you feel that way,” he said drily. “Ducky, it does sound like a poor relation touching the Family Hope; but I love you anyway and you know it.”