Oliver took part in the conversation. She had picked up the jargon of painters and made great play with the names of the new masters. To hear her talking glibly of Cézanne and saying how he had shown the object of pictorial art to be pattern filled Mendel's soul with loathing. He could not protest. What was the good of protesting to such people? . . . If only Logan had not been among them! He wanted to talk to Logan, to tell him what this new thing meant, to make him see that he must give up all thought of turning art back upon life, because life did not matter so very much. It could look after itself, while the integrity of art must at all costs be maintained. However, when Thompson said that the artist was now free to make up a picture out of any shapes he liked, Mendel could not contain himself, and said:-- "The artist is no more free than ever he was. He does not become free by burking representation. He is not free merely to work by caprice and fantasy. He is rather more strictly bound than ever, because he is working through his imagination and cannot get out of it merely by using his eyes and imitating charming things. If he tries to get out of it by impudent invention, then pictures will be just as dull and degraded as before." "'I am Sir Oracle,'" said the critic, "'and when I ope my lips let no dog bark.'" "You can bark away," cried Mendel, "but you must not complain if a man loses patience with you and kicks you back into your kennel." "Just listen to the boy!" cried Oliver. "Success has turned his pretty little head. Just listen to him teaching the critics their business!" Mendel gave her a furious look of contempt and left the room and the house. Logan came running after him. "I say, old man," he said, "you mustn't mind what she says. Those damn fools have stuffed her head up with their nonsense and she hasn't the brains of a louse." "If it was my house, I would kick them out." "They are good fellows enough." "Good fellows! When they make her more idiotic and blatant than she is!" "I can't think what made you so angry. There was nothing to flare up about. You are so touchy." Mendel was walking at a furious pace. Logan was out of condition and had to beg him to go more slowly. "I'm all to bits," said Logan. "That row----" "Why do you tell lies? It was she who mauled you. Why do you tell lies to me? I have never told lies to you about anything. You have always jeered at women and said they can know nothing about art, and yet you let her talk. . . . Why don't you leave her?" "We're very fond of each other," replied Logan. "It has gone too deep. We hate each other like poison sometimes, but that only makes it--the real thing--go deeper."