subtler than a common bowl, and the colours are alphabetical--and yet,
by what taking of thought could she have achieved an effect so grand,
at once so beautiful and so holy?"

"Yes, one might call it the good beauty," said Beatrice.

"Yes," continued Antony, perhaps somewhat ominously interested in the
subject, "that is a great mystery--the seeming moral meaning of the
forms of things. Some shapes, however beautiful, suggest evil; others,
however ugly, suggest good. As we look at a snake, or a spider, we know
that evil is shaped like that; and not only animate things but
inanimate. Some aspects of nature are essentially evil. There are
landscapes that injure the soul to look at, there are sunsets that are
unholy, there are trees breathing spiritual pestilence as surely as some
men breathe it--"

"Do you remember," continued Antony with a smile, which died as he
realised he was committed to an allusion best forgotten, "that old
twisted tree that stood on the moor near our wood? I often wonder what
mysterious sin he had committed--"

"Yes," laughed Beatrice, "he looked a terribly depraved old tree, I must
admit--but don't you think that when we have arrived at the discussion
of the mysterious sins of trees it is time to start home?"

"Yes, indeed," said Antony gaily, "let us change the subject to the
vices of flowers."

From which conversation it will be seen that Antony's mind was still
revolving with unconscious attraction around the mystery of Art. Was it