His companion had no difficulty whatever in saying, “The idols of the market; money and luxury and ‘the world;’ placing one’s children and dressing one’s wife; everything that drives one to the short and easy way. Ah the vile things they make one do!” “But surely one’s right to want to place one’s children.” “One has no business to have any children,” St. George placidly declared. “I mean of course if one wants to do anything good.” “But aren’t they an inspiration—an incentive?” “An incentive to damnation, artistically speaking.” “You touch on very deep things—things I should like to discuss with you,” Paul said. “I should like you to tell me volumes about yourself. This is a great feast for _me_!” “Of course it is, cruel youth. But to show you I’m still not incapable, degraded as I am, of an act of faith, I’ll tie my vanity to the stake for you and burn it to ashes. You must come and see me—you must come and see us,” the Master quickly substituted. “Mrs. St. George is charming; I don’t know whether you’ve had any opportunity to talk with her. She’ll be delighted to see you; she likes great celebrities, whether incipient or predominant. You must come and dine—my wife will write to you. Where are you to be found?” “This is my little address”—and Overt drew out his pocketbook and extracted a visiting-card. On second thoughts, however, he kept it back, remarking that he wouldn’t trouble his friend to take charge of it but would come and see him straightway in London and leave it at his door if he should fail to obtain entrance. “Ah you’ll probably fail; my wife’s always out—or when she isn’t out is knocked up from having been out. You must come and dine—though that won’t do much good either, for my wife insists on big dinners.” St. George turned it over further, but then went on: “You must come down and see us in the country, that’s the best way; we’ve plenty of room, and it isn’t bad.” “You’ve a house in the country?” Paul asked enviously. “Ah not like this! But we have a sort of place we go to—an hour from Euston. That’s one of the reasons.” “One of the reasons?” “Why my books are so bad.” “You must tell me all the others!” Paul longingly laughed. His friend made no direct rejoinder to this, but spoke again abruptly. “Why have I never seen you before?” The tone of the question was singularly flattering to our hero, who felt it to imply the great man’s now perceiving he had for years missed something. “Partly, I suppose, because there has been no particular reason why you should see me. I haven’t lived in the world—in your world. I’ve spent many years out of England, in different places abroad.” “Well, please don’t do it any more. You must do England—there’s such a lot of it.” “Do you mean I must write about it?” and Paul struck the note of the listening candour of a child.