ways that left more leisure and did not induce such profound depression. It was all very well, he thought, to gird, as did almost everybody he met, at the sordidness and grimness of the town in which they lived, but the most miserable of all the people in it were the supposed artists, the men who frequented the Arts Club. They were all men of talent, but none of them ever seemed to have used their gifts to any purpose. They were perpetually cursing the lack of appreciation of their fellow-citizens, but they had never made any really serious attempt to win them or to open up any new way for their minds. When it came to the point their standards were those of the rich men, upon whose caprice they lived. Like everybody else in the town they put up with money as the sole channel of communication between one man and another. Serge used sometimes to try to talk to the waifs and strays on the benches outside the church in the square, but he found them nearly all brutalised and fuddled. They seemed to have no thought beyond the next meal, no programme beyond the next drink. They cadged. Among the students at the school was a young man whom Serge had marked out from the very first moment. He was short, and had a large head, dark hair, bright eyes, and he was always merry. He had a joke for everyone, and he was always in love with one or other of the girl-students. Benskin was proud of him, for he won all possible prizes and was always solidly working. His name was Basil Haslam, brother of that spotty-faced youth who was Frederic's boon companion. They made acquaintance quickly but did not become friends until they both entered for a competition for a prize, the subject being a sea-piece. Haslam won it, and protested with Benskin that Folyat's was the best, because Folyat knew about the sea and he didn't. He was delighted when Serge told him that he had been a sailor. "Ah! That's it," he said. "That's it. I've never been anything. I can just draw but I don't understand about men and how they live." "That's not very difficult," replied Serge. "They are much the same everywhere. They are all born in the same way, and death has not many variations. What lies in between is largely a matter of eating, drinking, and sleeping." "And loving." "Just a few get as far as that. Not many." "But all of them seem to think about getting married." "That has surprisingly little to do with love. How much love do you get in your own house?" "Not much. But then they think I'm queer. My father's a doctor. He wanted me to be a doctor, but I've got a hundred-and-fifty of my own, so I can do what I like. I shall go to London as soon as I'm through here. It's no good being a painter here. They all think it's a joke, a sort of excuse for doing nothing." "I know. They think pictures are produced automatically--like everything else." "Old Benskin's automatic enough."