Yes, it was all even as had been foretold him. There they were, the myriad profile photographs of Mongoons past and present, crowding the wall space from floor to ceiling, but still (Gav was pleased to notice) with a few vacant places; and there the serried rows of lendable books; there, too, the great expanse of writing table stacked shoulder-high with letters from still-living Mongoons in every embassy, legation and consulate of the civilized world. [Illustration: DEAR MONGO] The talk buzzed on around him. How redolent of Wallace it seemed, virile, hard-hitting and pithy, generous, too, and all-embracing. Several of the older school of epigrammatists seemed to be of the party; their rapier wits flashed across the shadowy room. “I hear Bill Wallingford’s standing for the Tories in this Yorkshire election,” some one threw out, apparently at random. The world of high politics was obviously a preserve of the Mongoons. “Easy enough to stand,” came the lightning reply from some one else in deep shadow, “it’s to sit that’s the difficulty.” “Splendid,” Gav murmured in fine appreciation. He was feeling even more at home now. Somehow he felt he could show his mettle in this company. And he did. For a time Mongo said little. But at last he turned to his modest guest. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you since you were being coached for Eton, Gaveston. Years and years ago. But you haven’t changed.” It was a long speech for Mongo, but Gav was awake to its possibilities. Rising, he faced the crowded Mongoons, his back to the blazing hearth, a memorable figure. It was obvious that he was about to speak. “No, Mongo,” he began, in firm even tones. “Not changed.…” And with all the exquisite modulations and gestures of a born conversationalist, he went on. “For beauty is something constant and unchanging, is it not? Aspects may come and aspects may go, but the essence of beauty is stable and established, indestructible and indeciduous, in art or in life, in life or in art, and indeed in both.” It was a daring thesis. The ghost of a shudder rose from the most hardened Mongoons. But the ffoulis charm carried it off, and with graceful learning he developed his theme. “There is fashion in the beauty of women, is there not? Now it is fixed by Angelo or Angelico, now by Cimabue or Ruysdael, Augustus John or Augustus Egg--all have their day, but beneath the shifting sands lies always the eternal lodestone.” And without a pause, without a flaw, he kept the even tenour of his delightful argument, his hearers sitting in enraptured complaisance. Occasionally from the hob came the subtle encouragements of dear Mongo, every ten minutes perhaps, or even more seldom after two o’clock had clanged out over the sleeping roofs of this wonderful city.… “Delightful, Gaveston!” “Wonderful, Gav!”