“I think you had no right to suppose that,” he said. “No, I had none. I did not suppose it. I warned you, though.” A tenderness such as he had never known rose like a blush into his old bones, tenderness for this supreme talent that had been placed in his hands. “I only warned you,” he said. “I looked for burglars under your bed, just because--because it is a boy like you that this stupid world tries to spoil. Aye, and it will try to spoil you. Women will make love to you. They will fall in love with you, too.” Again he paused. “Things will be made poisonously pleasant for you,” he said. “You can without effort capture brilliant success. But remember all that you get without effort is not, from the point of view of art, conceivably worth anything. Remember also that nothing fine ever grew out of what is horrible. More than that, what is horrible sterilizes the soil,--that soil is you. You will never get any more if you spoil it or let it get sour or rancid. Horror gets rooted there, it devours all that might have been good, all that might have been of the best.” There was a long silence. Then Karl stepped back and rang the bell. To Martin the silvery tinkle sounded remote. He certainly was thinking now. “Well, I have done,” said Karl. “Excuse the--the Nonconformist conscience.” Martin got up. “I don’t see how one can care--really care--for music and live grossly,” he said. “Yet people appear to manage it. And mawkishness makes me feel sick,” he added with apparent irrelevance. But Karl understood. “Somebody has been trying to pet him,” he thought to himself. They went upstairs to the music-room, and Martin stood before the fire a few moments smoking in silence. “I like this room,” he said. “It makes me feel clean, like the November morning. I say, how is it that so many people, men and women alike, only think about one subject? Surely it is extraordinarily stupid of them, when there are so many jolly things in the world.” “Ah, if the world was not full of extraordinarily stupid people,” remarked Karl, “it would be an enchanting place.” “Oh, it’s enchanting as it is,” cried Martin, throwing off his preoccupation. “May I begin again at once? I want to get through a lot of work to-night. Heavens, there’s a barrel-organ playing ‘Cavalleria.’ Frank is going to introduce a bill next session, he says, putting ‘Cavalleria’ in public on the same footing as obscene language in public. He says it comes to the same thing.” * * * * *