“Did you do this?” asked George, who had no idea what a monotype was and dared not inquire.

“Yes.  They’re rather amusing to do.  You just use a match or your finger or anything.”

“It’s jolly good,” said George.  “D’you know, it reminds me a bit of Cezanne.”

Of course it was in Paris that he had heard of the great original, the martyr and saviour of modern painting.  Equally of course it was Mr. Enwright who had inducted him into the esoteric cult of Cezanne, and magically made him see marvels in what at the first view had struck him as a wilful and clumsy absurdity.

“Oh!” murmured Buck, stiffening.

“What do you think of Cezanne?”

“Rule it out!” said Buck, with a warning cantankerous inflection, firmly and almost brutally reproving this conversational delinquency of George’s.  “Rule it out, young man!  We don’t want any of that sort of mountebanking in England.  We know what it’s worth.”

George was cowed.  More, his faith in Cezanne was shaken.  He smiled sheepishly and was angry with himself.  Then he heard Mr. Prince saying calmly and easily to Miss Haim—­the little old man could not in fact be so nervous as he seemed: 

“I suppose you wouldn’t come with me to the Prom?”

George was staggered and indignant.  It was inconceivable, monstrous, that those two should be on such terms as would warrant Mr. Prince’s astounding proposal.  He felt that he simply could not endure them marching off together for the evening.  Her acceptance of the proposal would be an outrage.  He trembled.  However, she declined, and he was lifted from the rack.

“I must really go,” she said.  “Father’s sure to be home by now.”

“May I?” demanded Mr. Buckingham Smith, stooping over Marguerite’s portfolio of designs, and glancing round at her for permission to open it.  Already his hand was on the tape.

“On no account!” she cried.  “No!  No!...  Mr. Cannon, please take it from him!” She was serious.

“Oh!  All right!  All right!” Mr. Buckingham Smith rose to the erect good-humouredly.

After a decent interval George took the portfolio under his arm.  Marguerite was giving thanks for hospitality.  They left.  George was singularly uplifted by the fact that she never concealed from him those designs upon which Mr. Buckingham Smith had not been allowed to gaze.  And, certain contretemps and disappointments notwithstanding, he was impressed by the entity of the studio.  It had made a desirable picture in his mind:  the romantic paraphernalia, the etchings, the canvases, the lights and shadows, the informality, the warm odours of the lamp and of the Pilsener, the dazzling white of the tablecloth, the quick, positive tones of Buckingham Smith, who had always to be convincing not only others but himself that he was a strong man whose views were unassailable, the eyes of Buckingham Smith like black holes in his handsome face, the stylish gestures and coarse petulance