"What do _you_ mean by this red-haired party, my boy? This is a new style for you, Geoff, and one which no one would have thought of your taking up. You weren't brought up to consider this the right style of thing in old Sassoon's academy, Geoff. If the old boy could rise from his grave, and see his favourite pupil painting a frizzy, red-haired, sallow-faced woman as the realisation of beauty, I think he'd be glad he'd been called away before such awful times." There was a hesitation in Geoff's voice, and a hollowness in his smile, as he answered: "P.-R.-B. nonsense! Old Sassoon couldn't teach everything; and as for his ideas of beauty, look how often he made us paint Mrs. S. and the Miss S.'s, who, Heaven knows, were anything but reproductions of the Venus Calipyge. The simple question, as I take it, is this--is the thing a good thing or a bad one? Tell me that." "As a work of art?" "Of course; as you see it. What else could I mean?" "As a work of art, it's good--undeniably good, in tone, and treatment, and conception; as a work of prudence, it's infernally bad." Geoff looked at him sharply for a minute, and William Bowker, calmly puffing at his pipe, did not shrink from his friend's glance. Then, with a flush, Geoff said: "It strikes me that it is as a work of art you have to regard it. As to what you say about a work of prudence, you have the advantage of me. I don't understand you." "Don't you?" said William. "I'm sorry for you. What model did you paint that head from?" "From no model." "From life?" "N-no; from memory--from--Upon my soul, Bowker, I don't see what right you have to cross-question me in this way." "Don't you?" said Bowker. "Give your William something to drink, please; he can't talk when he's dry. What is that? B. and soda. Yes, that'll do. Look here, Geoffrey Ludlow, when you were little more than a boy, grinding away in the Life-School, and only too pleased if the Visitor gave you an encouraging word, your William, who is ten years your senior, had done work which made him be looked upon as the coming man. He had the ball at his foot, and he had merely to kick it to send it where he chose. He does not say this out of brag--you know it?" Geoffrey Ludlow inclined his head in acquiescence. "Your William didn't kick the bail; something interfered just as his foot was lifted to send it flying to the goal--a woman." Again Geoffrey Ludlow nodded in acquiescence.