"But the facts are these: the average does not vary much. A mediocrity, not disagreeable, always rules; supremity has been, is, and always will be the stick in the riffle around which the little whirlpool will always centre. This year it happens to be José Querida who stems the sparkling mediocrity and sticks up from the bottom gravel making a fine little swirl. Next year--or next decade it may be anybody--you, Annan, or Sam--perhaps," he added with a slight smile, "it might be I. _Quand même_. The exhibitions are no rottener than they have ever been; and it's up to us to go about our business. And I'm going. Good-bye." He rose from the table, laid aside the remains of his cigar, nodded good-humouredly to the others, and went out with that quick, graceful, elastic step which was noticed by everybody and envied by many. "Hell," observed John Burleson, hitching his broad shoulders forward and swallowing a goblet of claret at a single gulp, "it's all right for Kelly Neville to shed sweetness and light over a rotten exhibition where half the people are crowded around his own picture." "What a success he's having," mused Ogilvy, looking sideways out of the window at a pretty girl across the street. Annan nodded: "He works hard enough for it." "He works all the time," grumbled Burleson, "but, does he work _hard_?" "A cat scrambling in a molasses barrel works hard," observed Ogilvy--"if you see any merit in that, John." Burleson reared his huge frame and his symmetrical features became more bovine than ever: "What the devil has a cat in a molasses barrel to do with the subject?" he demanded. Annan laughed: "Poor old honest, literal John," he said, lazily. "Listen; from my back window in the country, yesterday, I observed one of my hens scratching her ear with her foot. How would you like to be able to accomplish that, John?" "I wouldn't like it at all!" roared Burleson in serious disapproval. "That's because you're a sculptor and a Unitarian," said Annan, gravely. "My God!" shouted Burleson, "what's that got to do with a hen scratching herself!" Ogilvy was too weak with laughter to continue the favourite pastime of "touching up John"; and Burleson who, under provocation, never exhibited any emotion except impatient wonder at the foolishness of others, emptied his claret bottle with unruffled confidence in his own common-sense and the futility of his friends. "Kelly, they say, is making a stunning lot of stuff for that Byzantine Theatre," he said in his honest, resonant voice. "I wish to Heaven I could paint like him." Annan passed his delicate hand over his pale, handsome face: "Kelly Neville is, without exception, the most gifted man I ever knew." "No, the most skilful," suggested Ogilvy. "I have known more gifted men who never became skilful." [Illustration: "'What's the matter with it, then?'"] "What hair is that you're splitting, Sam?" demanded Burleson. "Don't you like Kelly's work?" "Sure I do."