"I never share this," said Welby, "with more than one friend at a
time."

Kenelm sought to engage his host in discussion on certain new works in
vogue, and which were composed according to purely realistic canons of
criticism. "The more realistic; these books pretend to be, the less
real they are," said Kenelm. "I am half inclined to think that the
whole school you so systematically sought to build up is a mistake,
and that realism in art is a thing impossible."

"I dare say you are right. I took up that school in earnest because I
was in a passion with pretenders to the Idealistic school; and
whatever one takes up in earnest is generally a mistake, especially if
one is in a passion. I was not in earnest and I was not in a passion
when I wrote those articles to which I am indebted for my office."
Mr. Welby here luxuriously stretched his limbs, and lifting his glass
to his lips, voluptuously inhaled its bouquet.

"You sadden me," returned Kenelm. "It is a melancholy thing to find
that one's mind was influenced in youth by a teacher who mocks at his
own teachings."

Welby shrugged his shoulders. "Life consists in the alternate process
of learning and unlearning; but it is often wiser to unlearn than to
learn. For the rest, as I have ceased to be a critic, I care little
whether I was wrong or right when I played that part. I think I am
right now as a placeman. Let the world go its own way, provided the
world lets you live upon it. I drain my wine to the lees, and cut
down hope to the brief span of life. Reject realism in art if you