"Modernity," repeated Neville. "Hello; there's Carrillo, the young apostle of Bruant, who makes such a hit with the elect." "How, Kelly?" "Realism, New York, and the spade business. He saw a sign on a Bowery clothing store,--'Gents Pants Half Off Today,' and he wrote a poem on it and all Manhattan sat up and welcomed him as a peerless realist; and dear old Dean Williams compared him to Tolstoy and Ed. Harrigan, and there was the deuce to pay artistically and generally. Listen to the Yankee Steinlen in five-minute verse, dear." Carrillo rose, glanced carelessly at his type-written manuscript and announced its title unconcernedly: "_Mutts In Madison Square_. "A sodden tramp sits scratching on a bench, The S.C.D. cart trails a lengthening stench Where White Wings scrape the asphalt; and a breeze Ripples the fountain and the budding trees. Now fat old women, waddling like hogs, Arrive to exercise their various dogs; And 'round and 'round the little mutts all run, Grass-maddened, frantic, circling in the sun, Wagging and nosing--see! beneath yon tree One little mutt meets his affinity: And, near, another madly wags his tail Inquiringly; but his advances fail, And, 'yap-yap-yap!' replies the shrewish tyke, So off the other starts upon a hike, Rushing at random, crazed with sun and air, Circling and barking out his canine prayer: "'Oh, Lord of dogs who made the Out-of-doors And fashioned mutts to gambol on all fours, Grant us a respite from the city's stones! Grant us a grassy place to bury bones!--A grassy spot to roll on now and then, Oh, Lord of dogs who also fashioned men, Accept our thanks for this brief breath of air, And grant, Oh, Lord, a humble mongrel's prayer!' * * * * * The hoboe, sprawling, scratches in the sun; While 'round and 'round the happy mongrels run." "Good Heavens," breathed Neville, "that sort of thing may be modern and strong, but it's too rank for me, Valerie. Shall we bolt?" "I--I think we'd better," she said miserably. "I don't think I care for--for these interesting people very much." They rose and passed slowly along the walls of the room, which were hung with "five-minute sketches," which probably took five seconds to conceive and five hours to execute--here an unclothed woman, chiefly remarkable for an extraordinary development of adipose tissue and house-maid's knee; here a pathological gem that might have aptly illustrated a work on malformations; yonder a dashing dab of balderdash, and next it one of Rackin's masterpieces, flanked by a gem of Stanley Pooks. In the centre of the room, emerging from a chunk of marble, the back and neck and one ear of an unclothed lady protruded; and the sculptured achievement was labelled, "Beatrice Andante." "Oh, Lord," whispered Neville, repressing a violent desire to laugh. "Beatrice and Aunty! I didn't know he had one."