all those last unreal hours together; but the pathos of that sad phrase,
so curiously symbolic, suddenly smote it with overwhelming pity, and the
tears sprang to my eyes for the first time. As I bent over him to kiss
his poor damp forehead, and press his hand for the last farewell, I
murmured--

'Yes--dear, dear old friend. We shall know all about the securities....'




THE BOOM IN YELLOW


Green must always have a large following among artists and art lovers;
for, as has been pointed out, an appreciation of it is a sure sign of a
subtle artistic temperament. There is something not quite good,
something almost sinister, about it--at least, in its more complex
forms, though in its simple form, as we find it in outdoor nature, it is
innocent enough; and, indeed, is it not used in colloquial metaphor as
an adjective for innocence itself? Innocence has but two colours, white
or green. But Becky Sharp's eyes also were green, and the green of the
aesthete does not suggest innocence. There will always be wearers of the
green carnation; but the popular vogue which green has enjoyed for the
last ten or fifteen years is probably passing. Even the aesthete himself
would seem to be growing a little weary of its indefinitely divided
tones, and to be anxious for a colour sensation somewhat more positive
than those to be gained from almost imperceptible _nuances_, of green.
Jaded with over-refinements and super-subtleties, we seem in many
directions to be harking back to the primary colours of life. Blue,