"Yes, I gave you a copy of it."

"Oh, yes, of course. But, did you explain, for instance, that there
was no such thing as bad or good grammar?"

"N-no," said Soames. "Of course in art there is the good and the
evil. But in life--no." He was rolling a cigarette. He had weak, white
hands, not well washed, and with finger-tips much stained with nicotine.
"In life there are illusions of good and evil, but"--his voice trailed away
to a murmur in which the words "vieux jeu" and "rococo" were
faintly audible. I think he felt he was not doing himself justice, and
feared that Rothenstein was going to point out fallacies. Anyhow, he
cleared his throat and said, "Parlons d'autre chose."

It occurs to you that he was a fool? It didn't to me. I was young,
and had not the clarity of judgment that Rothenstein already had.
Soames was quite five or six years older than either of us. Also--he had
written a book. It was wonderful to have written a book.

If Rothenstein had not been there, I should have revered Soames.
Even as it was, I respected him. And I was very near indeed to reverence
when he said he had another book coming out soon. I asked if I might
ask what kind of book it was to be.

"My poems," he answered. Rothenstein asked if this was to be the
title of the book. The poet meditated on this suggestion, but said he
rather thought of giving the book no title at all. "If a book is good in
itself--" he murmured, and waved his cigarette.

Rothenstein objected that absence of title might be bad for the sale