Swinburne.'

Just then we saw a young man coming along the path with a Kodak and a
pink evening paper. He seemed pleased to see me, and said, 'May I
appreciate you?'

I gave the young man a push and he fell right over the cliff. Theodormon
threw down after him a heavy-looking book which, alighting on his skull,
smashed it. 'My preserver,' he cried, 'you shall see what you like, you
shall do what you like, except write my biography. Swinburne is close at
hand, though he occasionally wanders. His permanent address is the
Peaks, Parnassus. Perhaps you would like to pay some other calls as
well.'

I assented.

We came to a printing-house and found William Morris reverting to type
and transmitting art to the middle classes.

'The great Tragedy of Topsy's life,' said Theodormon, 'is that he
converted the middle classes to art and socialism, but he never touched
the unbending Tories of the proletariat or the smart set. You would have
thought, on homoeopathic principles, that cretonne would appeal to
cretins.'

'Vale, vale,' cried Charles Ricketts from the interior.

I was rather vexed, as I wanted to ask Ricketts his opinions about
various things and people and to see his wonderful collection. Shannon,
however, presented me with a lithograph and a copy of 'Memorable