Yet he has his patiences. Rubs out more than he puts in. Is indeed a master of much bread-crumbs. He has the catch-words, too--is for Art for Art’s sake, contemns Story, shrugs at the Anecdote, sneers at the Soul, purrs of Values, insists that the Picture shall Keep Within the Frame, rattles all the jargons, and shows a fine contempt for Sargent and all the modern men--yet has almost decided that Whistler _may_ live--holds, however, that great Art died with the Renaissance; is not quite sure what the Renaissance was--or where--or when. He chats as glibly as the rest now--hee-haws against the hee-haws of Quogge Myre--and not always in vain. Indeed there are degrees in asininity, when splendour of hee-hawing out-brays the lesser hee-haw. And, Beelzebub! such knees as are on him!” CHAPTER XV _Which tells of a Poet that offered Himself for Sacrifice, and was Rejected of the Gods_ The last day of September has early bridal with the night. Though the afternoon was not full spent, the dark shadows of the coming darkness held the town. In the midst of the gloom that was in Doome’s studio stood the sulky figure of the Honourable Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott; and, at his feet, there crouched on the floor a very young and very beautiful woman, and her head was bowed. Wringing her clasped hands upon her knees she said hoarsely: “God have mercy upon me--for this is an awful caricature of His image.... I am lost--lost.” He fidgeted peevishly: “You know, my dear girl, this is most annoying,” said he, with self-pitying drawl--“your taunts are in such bad taste--and it is so absolutely embarrassing. And--I so positively detest being embarrassed.” She rose to her feet wearily: “Ponsonby, all my things are packed, ready to go--Heaven knows there was not so much to pack--it is not that. I do not want to encumber you--to embarrass you. I am going. This place is not such a bewitching Paradise, nor its memories so sweet, that I should stay. I know your time at these rooms is up. But you--even you--must surely realize that I cannot go home where a harsh and bitterly religious step-father sits at the table.” She drooped her head: “I could not disguise my state for a day. And they are so religious.” She fidgeted her fingers pathetically: “No,” she moaned--“I cannot go home--there’s no smallest mercy in them.” The Honourable Ponsonby broke into her mood: “But--I say, my dear gal----” How she had grown to hate the dreadful drawl! “Ponsonby”--she grasped his arm feverishly, trying to rouse some honour in him--“I have no money--none. I shall soon be a mother. You have made it impossible for me to make money in the studios. At home,” she laughed sadly, “they think I am studying art.” She got a-brooding. “The child will require care.... Where, in God’s name, am I to go?” “Well--er--I don’t really know. You see I’m so bad at arranging things.... Almost an ass in some things----” She touched his sleeve--so pathetically: