The members of the Artists Union were certainly artistic. A novelist who specialised in love and divorce in the Sunday newspapers and was dignified with the title of 'publicist' made a long tirade against the ignorant but prosperous industrial classes. A young man followed this, very nerve-racked and bordering on hysteria, with an oration proving that hunger and genius were inseparable, whereupon a stout lady at the back of the diminutive theatre rose up and declared that all artists, musicians, and authors should be a direct charge on the Government, a sentiment that was applauded loudly. Thoroughly enjoying himself, John sat next to a young lady in a gaudy kimono who was busy sketching the speakers, while a young man with a red beard that half hid a very weak mouth, drank tea out of a thermos flask. A wealthy lady, interested in art, occupied the chair, which must have been very uncomfortable, for most of the brilliantly insulting things said applied perfectly to her husband, a wholesale grocer, who, to atone for disfiguring England with placards inciting the public to drink Tiffinson's Tea, bought preposterous modern paintings at well advertised figures. John discovered it was a gathering of minor notabilities; there was Mr. Shandon Gunn, the cubist painter who laboriously disguised the fact that he had ever studied at the Slade School, or knew the meaning of perspective. When slightly drunk, he was reputed to be epigrammatic. His speech was cheered vociferously for its cleverness in conveying absolutely nothing to the audience. He was followed by Mr. Leslie Bumbo, a pallid fellow, the apostle of art with an ego, who wrote art books, and kept a book shop in a slum, which revealed a knowledge of business, since the bookshop kept him. Moreover, he led a culture movement for leisured ladies, who gathered every Wednesday in a shanty at the back of his house, where, in a dim light and a dim voice, he droned out his latest discourses on art. It was remunerative if mournful, for the ladies paid a shilling for admittance, bought the discourses and went home feeling gloriously advanced. His speech this evening was confined to an embroidery on "The Ugly as an incentive to Murder." John was indebted for personal details to the young lady in the kimono, who called him "kid" and smoked incessantly while she drew. Towards the end of the meeting she waved her hand to a girl who had pushed forward in the crowded doorway. John looked and, with a slight thrill of pleasure, recognised Tilly. In the conversazione that ensued when the formal meeting ended, they sat in a corner together and drank coffee. She knew everybody and introduced him freely as "Scissors." When the company was going, Tilly, who had collected a small crowd, caught hold of John's arm. "Come along, Scissors!" she cried, propelling him towards the door. "Where?" he asked. "To my studio--we're having a romp." "But I can't go--I've to get my copy ready for the office."