"I know," replied Mendel, who had received an amazing account which showed about two-thirds of his earnings swallowed up in colours, brushes, frames, and photographs. He knew, but he was not interested. He was unhappy and restless and felt completely empty. "We passionate natures," said Logan, striding up and down like Napoleon on the quarter-deck of the _Bellerophon_--"we passionate natures must take control. We must be the nucleus of true fiery stuff to resist the universal corruption. We must be dedicated to the wars of the spirit." "I've got a splitting headache," said Mendel. "Do you mind not talking so much? The important thing for a painter is painting. What happens outside that doesn't matter." "You think so now," said Logan, "but you wait. You'll find that painting won't satisfy you. You will want to know what it is all for, and one of these days you will be thankful to me for telling you. . . . Cluny has taken on some of my things, and he has agreed to our having an exhibition together. What do you say to that?" "So long as I sell I don't care where I exhibit. Exhibitions are always horrible. They always make pictures look mean and insignificant." "You are in a mood to-day." "I tell you," cried Mendel in a fury--"I tell you I know what art is better than anybody. It touches life at one point, and one point only, and there it gives a great light. If life is too mean and beastly to reach that point, so much the worse for life. It does not affect art, which is another world, where everything is beautiful and true. I know it; I have always known it. I have lived in that world. I live in it, and I detest everything that drags me away from it and makes me live in the world of filth and thieves and scoundrels. Yes, I detest even love, even passion, for they make a fool and a beast of a man." "Young!" said Logan. "Very young! You'll learn. . . . But do be sensible and control your beast of a temper. Never mind my programme if it doesn't interest you. Will you accept Cluny's offer? It is worth it, for it will make you independent." "How much does he want?" "A dozen exhibits each." "Oh! very well." "And will you come and dine to-night with my fool of a patron, Mr. Tilney Tysoe?" "I don't want to know fools. I know quite enough already." "But I've promised to take you. . . . He adores Bohemians, as he calls us, and he buys pictures." "Does he give you good food?" "Some of the best in London." "All right." "Meet us at the Paris Café at seven-thirty. Don't dress. Tysoe would be dreadfully disappointed if you didn't turn up reeking of paint. It would be almost better not to wash." "Is Oliver going?" "Yes. Do you mind?" "No. . . . No." * * * * *