chatted desultorily of burlesques, horses, the legs of actresses, the
chances of politics. The waiters moved quietly about with pathetic masks
of satisfied servitude. Valentine and the doctor conversed earnestly.

At first they spoke of a new symphony composed by a daring young
Frenchman, who had striven to reproduce vices in notes and to summon
up visions of things damnable by harmonic progressions which frequently
defied the laws of harmony. Levillier gently condemned him for putting
a great art to a small and degraded use.

"His very success makes me regret the waste of his time more deeply,
Cresswell," he said. "He is a marvellous painter in sound. He has
improved upon Berlioz, if it is improvement to cry sin with a clearer,
more determinate voice. Think what a heaven that man could reproduce
in music."

"Because he has reproduced a hell. But do you think that follows? Can
the man who wallows with force and originality soar with force and
originality too?"

"I believe he could learn to. The main thing is to possess genius in
any form, the genius to imagine, to construct, to present things that
seize upon the minds of men. But to possess genius is only a beginning.
We have to train it, to lead it, to coax it even, until it learns to be
obedient."

"Genius and obedience. Don't the two terms quarrel?"

"They should not. Obedience is a very magnificent thing, Cresswell, just
as to have to struggle, to be obliged to fight, is a very magnificent