Rudyard Kipling 45 could never have seen the genuine article; but he evolved it; and it was good.” “Recollect some of those views in the Sudan?” said Torpenhow, with a provoking drawl. Dick squirmed in his place. “Don’t! It makes me want to get out there again. What color that was! Opal and umber and amber and claret and brick-red and sulfur — cockatoo-crest — sulfur — against brown, with a nigger-black rock sticking up in the middle of it all, and a decorative frieze of camels festooning in front of a pure pale turquoise sky.” He began to walk up and down. “And yet, you know, if you try to give these people the thing as God gave it, keyed down to their comprehension and according to the powers He has given you — “Modest man! Go on.” “Half a dozen epicene young pagans who haven’t even been to Algiers will tell you, first, that your notion is borrowed, and, secondly, that it isn’t Art. “This comes of my leaving town fora month. Dickie, you've been promenading among the toy-shops and hearing people talk.” “IT couldn’t help it,” said Dick, penitently. “You weren't here, and it was lonely these long evenings. A man can’t work forever.” “A man might have gone to a pub, and got decently drunk.” “I wish I had; but I forgathered with some men of sorts. They said they were artists, and I knew some of them could draw, — but they wouldn’t draw. They gave me tea, — tea at five in the afternoon! — and talked about Art and the state of their souls. As if their souls mattered. I’ve heard more about Art and seen less of her in the last six months than in the whole of my life. Do you remember Cassavetti, who worked for some continental syndicate, out with the desert column? He