And the spring sunshine grew hot, and sprinkling carts appeared, and the metropolis moulted its overcoats, and the derby became a burden, and the annual spring exhibition of the National Academy of Design remained uncrowded.

Neville, lunching at the Syrinx Club, carelessly caught the ball of conversation tossed toward him and contributed his final comment: 

“Burleson—­and you, Sam Ogilvy—­and you, Annan, all say that the exhibition is rotten.  You say so every year; so does the majority of people.  And the majority will continue saying the same thing throughout the coming decades as long as there are any exhibitions to damn.

“It is the same thing in other countries.  For a hundred years the majority has pronounced every Salon rotten.  And it will so continue.

“But the facts are these:  the average does not vary much.  A mediocrity, not disagreeable, always rules; supremity has been, is, and always will be the stick in the riffle around which the little whirlpool will always centre.  This year it happens to be Jose Querida who stems the sparkling mediocrity and sticks up from the bottom gravel making a fine little swirl.  Next year—­or next decade it may be anybody—­you, Annan, or Sam—­perhaps,” he added with a slight smile, “it might be I. Quand meme.  The exhibitions are no rottener than they have ever been; and it’s up to us to go about our business.  And I’m going.  Good-bye.”

He rose from the table, laid aside the remains of his cigar, nodded good-humouredly to the others, and went out with that quick, graceful, elastic step which was noticed by everybody and envied by many.

“Hell,” observed John Burleson, hitching his broad shoulders forward and swallowing a goblet of claret at a single gulp, “it’s all right for Kelly Neville to shed sweetness and light over a rotten exhibition where half the people are crowded around his own picture.”

“What a success he’s having,” mused Ogilvy, looking sideways out of the window at a pretty girl across the street.

Annan nodded:  “He works hard enough for it.”

“He works all the time,” grumbled Burleson, “but, does he work hard?”

“A cat scrambling in a molasses barrel works hard,” observed Ogilvy—­“if you see any merit in that, John.”

Burleson reared his huge frame and his symmetrical features became more bovine than ever: 

“What the devil has a cat in a molasses barrel to do with the subject?” he demanded.

Annan laughed:  “Poor old honest, literal John,” he said, lazily.  “Listen; from my back window in the country, yesterday, I observed one of my hens scratching her ear with her foot.  How would you like to be able to accomplish that, John?”

“I wouldn’t like it at all!” roared Burleson in serious disapproval.

“That’s because you’re a sculptor and a Unitarian,” said Annan, gravely.

“My God!” shouted Burleson, “what’s that got to do with a hen scratching herself!”