"Damn! this is worse than Plant," said the obedient Bramber. Nevertheless, he owned that Plant was a man, and a real good sort. "I go to see him, Lady Penelope, in his room in Bloomsbury. He’s living on about half a crown a day. I—oh—yes, I’m coming down to the thousand by degrees. And of course if you want me to go into the House, I’ll go." Carteret Williams was there, and was put through his paces by Pen about art. He had learnt something about it by rote. "The Academy is composed of painters," he said, mechanically, "but there are few artists in it. I quite agree with Carew, who had his pictures chucked before they made him an associate through fear. Turner is a very great artist. He shows how near the sublime can get to the ridiculous. Whistler is also great. He shows how near the ridiculous can go to the sublime. Art is a combination of the material and the spiritual. So Carew says. He showed me a lot of Blake, and he says that the beauty of Blake is that you can’t understand him by any ordinary means, such as the intellect. I’m not up to Blake yet. The old masters are very fine. I admit it. Velasquez is dry, but wonderful. Rembrandt appeals to me because he is very dark; I think he would be better if he were darker. We go to the National Gallery every day, and then I take him to the Press Club, where he hears about real life." When Carew came, he owned that Williams wasn’t a bad sort. "And he’s doing his level best to understand," said Carew, with enthusiasm. "He stands before a picture of mine every day for an hour while I explain it. He sees something in it at last. And he’s reading about art, and is beginning to see why a photograph isn’t the last word of things. He’s led a wonderful life, Lady Penelope, and when he gets on what he’s seen and done, I feel almost ashamed to live as I do." "That’s right," said Pen; "every artist should. And every man who is not an artist should be sorry that he is not. We are far from perfect yet." How beautiful she looked, thought Carew. "She lives in the world of the ideal, and so do I." "I am very much pleased with everything," said Pen at large to the assembly, and De Vere, who was having a holiday for his satire, was pleased too. And Goby was delighted at being let off poetry for awhile. "Not but what there’s something in it, I admit," said Goby, critically. "Robert Lindsay Gordon is a fair snorter at it. I can’t say I’m up to Shelley yet. De Vere read me the Epi-something-or-other." "’Epipsychidion,’" said Pen. "That’s it, a regular water-jump of a word," said Goby, "and he took it in his stride, while I boggled on the bank. However, I’m coming up hand over hand with him. I’m reading Keats with him. He’s all right when you get to know him, Lady Penelope, and rowing’s doing him no end of good. He’s a well-made little chap, and getting some good muscle. If I’m not dead by the time I can take the Epi-what’s-his-name, I’ll make a man of him."