search of man for the fleshly beauty which is so full of illusions for us all, while the spiritual beauty is ever far away. To this kind of interpretative design Oscar Wilde’s swan song, _The Harlot’s House_, lends itself admirably, and Miss Gyles’s black and white work here becomes inspired to the standard of Beardsley’s and Sime’s best work. The shadow effects illustrating the stanzas, Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed A phantom lover to her breast, Sometimes they seemed to try and sing. Sometimes a horrible marionette Came out and smoked its cigarette Upon the steps like a live thing must be seen before one can place Althea Gyles’s drawings in their proper place. It is not a replica of Beardsley, it is not a faint far-off imitation of a Félicien Rops or Armand Rassenfosse, but something genuinely original in its shadow-graphic use of masses of black on a white ground. Once more, _mea culpa_, I have paid scant attention to Max Beerbohm’s caricatures, and I have failed to call attention here to his earlier and later method of work. I have not even spoken of his little paper entitled _The Spirit of Caricature_, wherein he discusses the spirit of the art he practises. God forgive me! Or yet again what meed of homage have I yet rendered to Mr. Will Rothenstein’s lithographic portraits, which are absolutely a necessity to anyone who would live a while with the shades of these men. Take, for example, his _Liber Juniorum_, which alone contains lithographed drawings of Aubrey Beardsley, Max Beerbohm, and Arthur Symons. Then there are so many others over whose achievements I must keep a holy silence, such as Mr. Charles Ricketts and his _Dial_, which was published by the Vale Press, and to which John Gray contributed many poems. Again, there are the colourists of this group, particularly Walter Sickert and Charles Conder. The latter, above all, is the colour comrade to Beardsley’s black and white. His figures are the lovers of Dowson’s verse, his landscapes and world have all those memories of the golden time that haunt the brain of John Gray and Theodore Wratislaw. No note, however short, on the nineties would be complete without a halt for praise of this painter of a strangely coloured _dolce far niente_. For everything in his work, be it on canvas, silk panel, or dainty fan, is drowsy with the glory of colour (as Mr. Holbrook Jackson admirably says), ‘colour suggesting form, suggesting all corporeal things, suggesting even itself, for Conder never more than hints at the vivid possibilities of life, more than a hint might waken his puppets from their Laodicean dream.’