"But, dear prince, you say 'art.' What art--painting, sculpture,
architecture, music, poetry, drama--?"

"One art," harshly cried the now excited man, as he pounded the table
with his hard fist. "One art, _my_ art, the fusion of all the arts. I,
Prince Igorovitch Karospina, tell you that I have discovered the secret
of the arts never dreamed of by Wagner and his futile, painted music on
a painted stage; I have gone, not to art, but to nature--colour, fire,
the elements. The eye is keener than the ear, vision is easier
comprehended than tone. Ah! I have you interested at last."

He began walking as if to overtake a missing idea. His niece watched him
cynically.

"I fear you are boring Mr. Shannon," she said in her most birdlike
accents. Her uncle turned on her.

"I don't care if I am. Go to bed! I am nearing the climax of a lifetime,
and I feel that I must talk to a sympathetic ear. You are not bored,
dear friend. I have pondered this matter for more than thirty years. I
have studied all the arts--painting particularly; and with colour, with
colourful design I mean to teach mankind the great lessons of the
masters and of religion."

"Ah, you will exhibit in large halls, panoramic pictures, I suppose,"
interrupted Shannon.

"Nothing of the sort," was the testy reply. "For thousands of years the
world has been gazing upon dead stones and canvases, reading dead words.