“Anything to be really beautiful must be complete. The reason for this is that it gives us that idea of completeness which the universe possesses. A picture in which every detail is painted may be pretty, but it is not beautiful. When you look at a person you look at his face and the expression of it. In anything on which you set your eyes, you see only the part that interests you. Therefore a good picture or a book should only have that part brought forth, and the rest and unimportant parts should be kept in the background. In fact, they should only be there to make the important thing more interesting; to make it stand out.” Then I read Henry’s paper: “At our last meeting we reviewed all that we had said about art. We spoke of the three kinds of life, the artistic, philosophic and scientific, and agreed that the artistic life is the one we care for. We made a list of those things which are necessary in art, so that we can refer to them, and apply them in judging life. “Good art 1. is a symbol of completeness in a definite form. 2. is self-expression and self-fulfilment. 3. must leave out unimportant detail. 4. must have variety and many-sidedness. 5. must not be partisan, and must be sympathetic. 6. gives the impression of truth. 7. ——” The last law, the idea of aloofness, of being above as well as within life, of being actor and spectator at once, they do not understand, and I made no further effort to explain. Henry said he left it out—for that reason—when writing his paper. I said Henry had mentioned we did prefer and choose the artistic life. But why? I suspected, from something they said, that they did not grasp the reasons. Virginia said she didn’t care what the reasons were, she knew she liked it best. The reasons, at any rate, had not impressed them. So I repeated what I had said, of the artistic life including the other two, of how the artist must know science and love goodness before he can create beauty. “Then,” said Florence, “the great artists were philosophers?” “Always,” I answered. “Take the ancient religious writings, such as the Vedas and the Bible. They were always poems, the work of artists who were also philosophers and scientists.” “Scientists?” asked Marian incredulously. “Surely,” I answered, “men such as Moses, who gave laws on sanitation and daily life, were the scientists of their time.” “An artist must understand science,” said Virginia, “natural science, if he wants to paint. And he must know physiology, too. I am beginning to realize that at school.” Some one mentioned Franklin. “Was he more scientist, or philosopher, or artist in his life?” “I think he was a philosopher,” said Virginia. “No,” Marian answered, “he just gathered a lot of bromidic proverbs, that were as old as the world, and said them over in an impressive way.” “But they were philosophical,” Virginia protested.