Henry had entered fully into that most delusive joy of journalism which spurs the young, raw writer on when he imagines he has some unpalatable truths to deliver. But in this case there was a worthier impulse than the common delight of attacking an author in print. Despite the influences that seemed to have been undermining the simple religious faith Henry had brought away from his native village, there still remained in him a strong abhorrence of that paganish cynicism which, expressed in fiction, tends to drag the mind into the sunless dungeons of thought and away from the glorious light of Christian truth. This book, "Ashes," was precisely of that type. Under the guise of a story pretending to reflect the manners of the time, it discussed problems which were in no sense representative of the varied whole of life, and the discussion of which appealed mainly to the morbid taste of readers who cared not a jot for art. "I shall be most interested to read your review," said Mr. P.; "and might I steal a march on your other readers by asking what impression 'Ashes' has made on you?" "I can best describe it by saying it leaves a nasty taste in the mouth--clever, but not nice." "Which might suggest that the author has succeeded in his task," rejoined the other, laughing and lighting a fresh cigarette, "since ashes have usually that effect. You know Moore's famous lines: "'Dead Sea fruits that tempt the eye, But turn to ashes on the lips'?" "Yes, and I think that 'Dead Sea Fruits' would have been as good a title for the book. But happily for mankind, we are not in the habit of making excursions to the Dead Sea to taste its apples." "There speaks hopeful youth. That is precisely what mankind is ever doing; that is the tragedy of life." "Surely there is more beauty than ugliness in the world, and even if there were less would it not be nobler to draw man's thoughts to the beauty rather than to the ugliness?" "Your view of art is somewhat Philistine, don't you think? The artist's business is not with morals but with truth, and truth is not always beautiful." "But there must be a purpose behind every work of art--a moral purpose, I mean," the younger man persisted, although he was conscious he was no match in argument against the defender of "Ashes." Henry's opinions were still in that state of flux when a young man's thoughts take on some colouring from every influence that touches them, and are only in a very minor degree the expression of his own mind. "The only purpose the artist need avow is to express the truth as he sees it," continued Mr. Puddephatt confidently. "I shall admit that the picture set forth in this novel is ugly, but I believe it to be true. Remember, we have the butcher's shop as well as the pastrycook's in Nature, and I fancy the former is the larger establishment." "Admitted," Henry retorted, with lessening fervour, "but are we not told that the end of art is to please?"