"I’m afraid I don’t know your name as an artist," said Wilbraham with a glance at the picture on the mantelpiece. "But it’s years since I went to an exhibition. I’m interested in art, though, and have read a good deal about the modern movements." "Art!" echoed Bastian. "There’s nothing like it, is there? The older I get the more I love it. Poetry, music, painting—everything. To tell you the truth, art has been my downfall." Wilbraham felt some surprise. He had thought that if Bastian had been through any experience that might be described as a downfall, it had been from other causes. "Well, if you’ve followed it when you might have been doing something else that would have brought you more money," he said, "I don’t know that you’re so much to be pitied. If I had the gift for painting, which I haven’t at all, I’d rather do what you’re doing now, than get rich." Bastian laughed. "I’m afraid I haven’t much gift either," he said. "I’m a rotten artist, and I’m a rotten musician, and I’m a rotten poet. I’ve tried to make my living out of all three; but perhaps you might say that I haven’t tried very hard. I love ’em all too much. It’s rotten to have to make your living out of what you love. You want to enjoy it, not to practise it, unless you’ve got a turn that way. You don’t have to be a singer yourself to enjoy other people’s singing; it doesn’t follow that you can paint good pictures because you know a bad one when you see it. There ought to be scholarships at the Universities for people with a genius for contemplation, and life fellowships to follow them up." "The holders of life fellowships have sometimes been known to practise contemplation to an excessive extent," said Wilbraham. Bastian laughed heartily. "That’s rather good," he said. "But what a pleasant life, eh? These jolly places—and plenty of good company, and good wine! Why should that happy lot be reserved for people who happened to interest themselves in one or two subjects, out of all that there are to interest one, in their extreme youth? I suppose you were at Oxford or Cambridge in those happy days of long ago?" "Cambridge," said Wilbraham. "I was at Christ’s." "We must have been there about the same time. I was at Magdalene—a nice snug little college, and becoming quite an intelligent one, from what I’ve heard. But I haven’t been there since I came down. They wouldn’t be very proud of me now, I’m afraid. One or two touts or stablemen might recognize me perhaps. They had plenty of money out of me when I had it. I don’t belong to that life any more."