"Yes," he echoed lightly, "what is she here for? There is no art in
this country. New York is the home of barbarism and Boston of
Philistinism; while Cincinnati is a chromo imitation of both. She'd
better have staid abroad."

"Your remark is true, Arthur," Bently laughed, "if it isn't very
relevant. What people in this country want isn't art at all, but what
some Great Panjandrum or other abroad has labeled art. They don't know
what is good."

"That is so true," was the retort, "that I almost wonder they don't buy
your pictures, Tom."

"But why does the girl come to America?" persisted Herman, with a faint
trace of irritation in his tone. "She could do far better at home."

"Oh, Demming wrote that she was bound to come. You can never tell what
ails a woman anyhow. Probably she has a lover over here somewhere."

Herman made no reply save by an involuntary lowering of his heavy
brows, and Rangely brought the conversation back to its starting-point
by asking:

"But what about Nick Featherstone?"

"Oh, Nick? Well, Nick tried to kiss her yesterday, and she offered to
stab him with some sort of a devilish dagger arrangement she carries
about like an opera heroine."

"Featherstone is always a strong temptation to an honest man's boot,"