He turned over a volume of Muther’s _History of Painting_ and, while staring vacantly into its pages, raked his mind for a diplomatic escape from attendance at the Armstrongs’ party. He was still far from successful, when his father approached to transact a little business. This settled, Claude referred to a Van Gogh he had lately bought for $5,000. Mr. Fontaine’s face puckered quizzically. "You are worse than the prodigal son," he said. "That young man squandered his patrimony on real extravagances, while you fritter yours away on unreal mockeries." "Did you look at it, father?" "Bless my soul, no. Its mere presence in the house is enough to upset me. As soon as I learned of its arrival, I looked at a copy of Ruisdael’s "Mill" for ten minutes to steady my nerves. Whenever I hear of one of your modern pictures, I steal comfort from an ancient one." "But you can’t judge a picture without seeing it," remonstrated Claude. "My boy, you once induced me to spend ten minutes at a Matisse exhibition in Stieglitz’s Little Secession Gallery. What I saw there was one horrible libel on humanity after another. That will last me a lifetime, thank you." Claude laughed. He and his father got along admirably by rarely pursuing an argument beyond its illogical conclusion. "What have you done with my particular ’libel’?" "I had it sent upstairs, to join your other atrocities in the Chamber of Indecencies." This was a nickname Mr. Rene Fontaine applied to a little room on the top floor where Claude had hung various "finds" in the later Impressionist, Cubist and Futurist styles. "Tomb, not chamber," said Claude. "Everything there is practically buried." "Not at all. Your friends are forever trotting upstairs. I even send people there myself. Only yesterday I invited J. Tuyler Harmon to go up. He said he enjoyed himself hugely." "What brought the old rogue in here again?" "His mistress. She’s one of the chief patronesses of the Religion and Forward movement. She had to attend a committee meeting downtown. He escorted her from her apartments in the Plaza and waited here for her until the committee adjourned. Out of that waiting I made several handsome sales—but not of your pictures." "Thus religion and art," said Claude, "are reconciled by the Mammon of Unrighteousness." *III* This reflection was lost on Mr. Fontaine, whose thoughts had switched to another line. He reminded Claude of the party they were to attend on the Armstrong estate in Huntington, Long Island. "Can’t you lunch with me at one, Claude?" he asked in an excellent humor. "Then we’ll take the train together." "I’m sorry, father, but I have another engagement this afternoon." He elaborated the urgency of the matter with an anxiety that Mr. Fontaine was quick to detect.