of it to my poor convert, who comes ruined to me for assistance.  As I cannot afford to pension him for life, I get rid of him by assisting him to emigrate.  Sometimes he prospers and repays me; sometimes I hear no more of him; sometimes he comes back with his habits unsettled.  One man whom I sent to America made his fortune, but he was not a social democrat; he was a clerk who had embezzled, and who applied to me for assistance under the impression that I considered it rather meritorious to rob the till of a capitalist.”

“He was a practical Socialist, in fact,” said Erskine.

“On the contrary, he was a somewhat too grasping Individualist.  Howbeit, I enabled him to make good his defalcation—­in the city they consider a defalcation made good when the money is replaced—­and to go to New York.  I recommended him not to go there; but he knew better than I, for he made a fortune by speculating with money that existed only in the imagination of those with whom he dealt.  He never repaid me; he is probably far too good a man of business to pay money that cannot be extracted from him by an appeal to the law or to his commercial credit.  Mr. Erskine,” added Trefusis, lowering his voice, and turning to the poet, “you are wrong to take part with hucksters and money-hunters against your own nature, even though the attack upon them is led by a man who prefers photography to etching.”

“But I assure you—­You quite mistake me,” said Erskine, taken aback.  “I—­”

He stopped, looked to Sir Charles for support, and then said airily:  “I don’t doubt that you are quite right.  I hate business and men of business; and as to social questions, I have only one article of belief, which is, that the sole refiner of human nature is fine art.”

“Whereas I believe that the sole refiner of art is human nature.  Art rises when men rise, and grovels when men grovel.  What is your opinion?”

“I agree with you in many ways,” replied Sir Charles nervously; for a lack of interest in his fellow-creatures, and an excess of interest in himself, had prevented him from obtaining that power of dealing with social questions which, he felt, a baronet ought to possess, and he was consequently afraid to differ from anyone who alluded to them with confidence.  “If you take an interest in art, I believe I can show you a few things worth seeing.”

“Thank you.  In return I will some day show you a remarkable collection of photographs I possess; many of them taken by me.  I venture to think they will teach you something.”

“No doubt,” said Sir Charles.  “Shall we return to the gallery?  I have a few treasures there that photography is not likely to surpass for some time yet.”

“Let’s go through the conservatory,” said Jane.  “Don’t you like flowers, Mr. Smi—­I never can remember your proper name.”

“Extremely,” said Trefusis.

They rose and went out into a long hothouse.  Here Lady Brandon, finding Erskine at her side, and Sir Charles before her with Gertrude, looked round for Trefusis, with whom she intended to enjoy a trifling flirtation under cover of showing him the flowers.  He was out of sight; but she heard his footsteps in the passage on the opposite side of the greenhouse.  Agatha was also invisible.  Jane, not daring to rearrange their procession lest her design should become obvious, had to walk on with Erskine.