When they reached the studio Mitchell suggested going, but Logan would not hear of it. He dragged them in and produced whisky and soda, and kept them talking far into the small hours. His bouncing energy kept Mendel awake and alert, but Mitchell was soon exhausted and fell asleep. "Shall we put him out of the way?" said Logan suddenly. "No one would know, and the river is handy. He is too clean, too soft, and there are too many like him. They are in the way of real men like you and me." Mendel was appalled to find that he could not defend his friend. All the discontents of his waning friendship came rushing up in him and he began to babble violently. "He is a liar and a coward, and he will never be an artist because he is too weak. He is not true. He is not good. I have trusted him with my secrets and he tells. He is always ashamed of me because of my clothes and because I have not been to Public School, and he is jealous because when we meet women they like me. He is soft and deceitful with them, but I am honest, and they like that. I wanted him to be my friend, but it is impossible." "He is an Englishman," said Logan sepulchrally, with the air of a Grand Inquisitor. "Aren't you an Englishman?" "No, Scotch and French. These Englishmen have no passions, unless they are mad like Blake. . . . No, no. We'll drop Mitchell overboard. We'll make him walk the plank, and fishes in the caverns of the sea shall eat his eyes." Logan was beginning to assume enormous proportions in Mendel's eyes. It seemed that there was nothing the tremendous fellow did not know. He began to talk of genius and the stirring of the creative impulse, and he gave so powerful an account of Blake that Mendel began to see visions of heaven and hell. Here was something which he could acknowledge as larger than himself without self-humiliation, and, indeed, the larger it loomed the more swiftly did he himself seem to grow. It was such a sensation as he had not known since the days before his rapture with Sara. All that had intervened fell away. That purity of passion returned to him and, choosing Logan for its object, rushed upon him and endowed him with its own power and beauty. Logan talking of Blake was to Mendel's innocence as rare as Blake, and he adored him.