poem were so various and so wide that they could scarcely hope to
explore them all in one evening, but that he was sure there must be
many who had thoughts or questions they wished to express, and to start
the discussion he would call upon a gentleman whom he had observed
taking notes during the reading, Mr. Fenton.

"The old scaramouch!" Fenton muttered, under his breath. "I'll paint
his portrait and send it to _Punch_."

Then with perfect coolness he got upon his feet and looked about the
parlor.

"I am so seldom able to come to these meetings," he said, "that I am
not at all familiar with your methods, and I certainly had no idea of
saying anything; I was merely jotting down a few things to think over
at home, and not making notes for a speech, as you would see if you
examined the paper."

At this point Miss Dimmont gave a cough which had a sound strangely
like a laugh strangled at its birth.

"The poem is one so subtile," Fenton continued, unmoved; "it is so
clever in its knowledge of human nature, that I always have to take a
certain time after reading it to get myself out of the mood of merely
admiring its technique, before I can think of it critically at all. Of
course the bit about 'an artist whose religion is his art' touches me
keenly, for I have long held to the heresy that art is the highest
thing in the world, and, as a matter of fact, the only thing one can
depend upon. The clever sophistry of Bishop Blougram shows well enough
how one can juggle with theology; and, after all, theology is chiefly