"Then you're not brutal, except half a dozen times in the year when you--And I've noticed that when your temper goes smash your morals go at the same time. Is that cause or effect? What's the real you like, and where do you keep it?" "The real me," said Vernon, "is seen in my pictures, and--and appreciated by my friends; you for instance, are, I believe, genuinely attached to me." "Oh, rot!" said Bobby. "I don't see," said Vernon, moving his iron chair to make room for two people at the next table, "why you should expect my pictures to rhyme with my life. A man's art doesn't rhyme with his personality. Most often it contradicts flatly. Look at musicians--what a divine art, and what pigs of high priests! And look at actors--but no, one can't; the spectacle is too sickening." "I sometimes think," said Temple, emptying his glass, "that the real you isn't made yet. It's waiting for--" "For the refining touch of a woman's hand, eh? You think the real me is--Oh, Temple, Temple, I've no heart for these childish imaginings! The real me is the man that paints pictures, damn good pictures, too, though I say it." "And is that what all the women think? "Ask them, my dear chap; ask them. They won't tell you the truth." "They're not the only ones who won't. I should like to know what you really think of women, Vernon." "I don't think about them at all," lied Vernon equably. "They aren't subjects for thought but for emotion--and even of that as little as may be. It's impossible seriously to regard a woman as a human being; she's merely a dear, delightful, dainty--" "Plaything?" "Well, yes--or rather a very delicately tuned musical instrument. If you know the scales and the common chords, you can improvise nice little airs and charming variations. She's a sort of--well, a penny whistle, and the music you get depends not on her at all, but on your own technique." "I've never been in love," said Temple; "not seriously, I mean," he hastened to add, for Vernon was smiling, "not a life or death matter, don't you know; but I do hate the way you talk, and one of these days you'll hate it too." Miss Desmond's warning floated up through the dim waters of half a year. "So a lady told me, only last Spring," he said. "Well, I'll take my chance. Going? Well, I'm glad we ran across each other. Don't forget to look me up." Temple moved off, and Vernon was left alone. He sat idly smoking cigarette after cigarette, and watched the shifting crowd. It was a bright October day, and the crowd was a gay one. Suddenly his fingers tightened on his cigarette,--but he kept the hand that held it before his face, and he bent his head forward.