“That’s right,” said the vatman; “they think that the paper that can take such pictures must be good for anything; though the truth is that it’s good for nothing—but the pictures. If there was any quality to the pulp, it could never run into such moulds as these were made in.” He began to pick up the impressions of a series of large, exhibition water-marks, and hold them to the windows, that their transparent wonders might be seen. “Real works of art,” he said, “with high lights and deep shadows and rare half tones and colour, too, all on stuff like tissue. The beaterman must give me pulp as fine as flour to get such impressions.” “Finer than flour, my lad. The new moulds are even more wonderful. It is no good doing what your father did over again. My father beat my grandfather; so it’s my duty to beat him—see?” “These are wonderful enough in all conscience.” “And for the Exhibition I mean to turn out something more wonderful still. Something more than craft—real art, my friend. I want the artists. I want them to see what our art paper for water-colour work is. They don’t know yet—at least only a handful of them.” “But this is different. The pulp to do this sort of thing must be as thin as water,” said Kellock. “Fibre is the first consideration for paper that’s going to be as everlasting as parchment; but these water-mark masterpieces are _tours de force_—conjuring tricks as I call them. And I want to give the public a conjuring trick more wonderful than they’ve ever seen in paper before; and I’m going to do it.” “No paper maker ever beat these, Mr. Trenchard,” declared Kellock. He held up large sheets of the size known as “elephant.” They appeared to be white until illuminated; then they revealed shades of delicate duck-green, sunrise yellow, dark blue, light blue and umber. A portrait by Romney of Lady Hamilton shone through the first, and the solidity of the dark masses, the rendering of the fabric and the luminous quality of the flesh were wonderfully translated by the daylight filtering through. “There can be no painted pictures like these,” said Matthew Trenchard stoutly. “And why? Because the painter uses paint; I use pure daylight, and the sweetest paint that ever was isn’t a patch on the light of day. Such things as these are more beautiful than pictures, just because the living light from the sky is more beautiful than any pigment made by man.” Kellock was too cautious to agree with these revolutionary theories. “Certainly these things would be very fine to decorate our windows, if we didn’t want to look out of them,” he admitted. Then he held up a portrait of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.