"If you really care for pictures," he said, "here's my card. I can show
you some quite good ones any Sunday, if you're down the river and care
to look in."

"Awfully nice of you, sir. I'll drop in like a bird. My name's
Mont-Michael." And he took off his hat.

Soames, already regretting his impulse, raised his own slightly in
response, with a downward look at the young man's companion, who had a
purple tie, dreadful little sluglike whiskers, and a scornful look--as
if he were a poet!

It was the first indiscretion he had committed for so long that he went
and sat down in an alcove. What had possessed him to give his card to a
rackety young fellow, who went about with a thing like that? And Fleur,
always at the back of his thoughts, started out like a filigree figure
from a clock when the hour strikes. On the screen opposite the alcove
was a large canvas with a great many square tomato-coloured blobs on
it, and nothing else, so far as Soames could see from where he sat.
He looked at his catalogue: "No. 32 'The Future Town'--Paul Post." 'I
suppose that's satiric too,' he thought. 'What a thing!' But his second
impulse was more cautious. It did not do to condemn hurriedly. There had
been those stripey, streaky creations of Monet's, which had turned out
such trumps; and then the stippled school; and Gauguin. Why, even since
the Post-Impressionists there had been one or two painters not to be
sneezed at. During the thirty-eight years of his connoisseur's life,
indeed, he had marked so many "movements," seen the tides of taste and
technique so ebb and flow, that there was really no telling anything
except that there was money to be made out of every change of fashion.