'In other words,' said Johnston Smyth, 'he has been to Edinburgh and to
London.'

'That is so,' smiled Selwyn; 'but I don't'----

'All people,' said Smyth serenely, 'admire Edinburgh, but abuse London.
Over here a man will jest about his religion or even his grandfather,
but never about Edinburgh. On the other hand, as every one damns
London, and as an Englishman is never so happy as when he has something
on hand to grouse about, London's population has grown to some eight
millions.'

'I think, Mr. Smyth,' said Lady Durwent, 'that you are as much a
philosopher as a painter.'

'Lady Durwent,' said the futurist, 'all art is philosophy--even old
Pyford's here, though his amounts almost to theology.'

For a few minutes the conversation drifted in inconsequential channels
until H. Stackton Dunckley becalmed everything with a laborious
dissertation on the lack of literary taste in both England and America.
Selwyn took the opportunity of studying the elusive beauty of Elise
Durwent, which seemed to provoke the eye to admiration, yet fade into
imperfection under a prolonged searching. Pyford grew sleepy, and even
Smyth appeared a little melancholy, when, on a signal from Lady
Durwent, brandy and liqueurs were served, checking Mr. Dunckley's
oratory and reviving every one's spirits noticeably.

'Mr. Selwyn,' said Mrs. Le Roy Jennings in her best manner, 'after you