`Oh yes, of course. But did you explain--for instance--that there
was no such thing as bad or good grammar?'

`N-no,' said Soames. `Of course in Art there is the good and the
evil. But in Life--no.' He was rolling a cigarette. He had weak
white hands, not well washed, and with finger-tips much stained
by nicotine. `In Life there are illusions of good and evil, but'--
his voice trailed away to a murmur in which the words `vieux
jeu' and `rococo' were faintly audible. I think he felt he was not
doing himself justice, and feared that Rothenstein was going to
point out fallacies. Anyhow, he cleared his throat and said
`Parlons d'autre chose.'

It occurs to you that he was a fool? It didn't to me. I was
young, and had not the clarity of judgment that Rothenstein
already had. Soames was quite five or six years older than
either of us. Also, he had written a book.

It was wonderful to have written a book.

If Rothenstein had not been there, I should have revered
Soames. Even as it was, I respected him. And I was very near
indeed to reverence when he said he had another book coming
out soon. I asked if I might ask what kind of book it was to be.

`My poems,' he answered. Rothenstein asked if this was to be
the title of the book. The poet meditated on this suggestion, but
said he rather thought of giving the book no title at all. `If a
book is good in itself--' he murmured, waving his cigarette.