themselves, so as to be sure it wasn’t adulterated. Now I’m all of their opinion. I say they were quite right. I get my colours from a man up in town, a wholesale dealer—”
“My husband is always so literal,” said Mrs. Harrison, taking the whole company into a confederacy to condemn the unfortunate man. “But I didn’t mean that at all. Mr. Lathom understands what I mean—don’t you, Mr. Lathom?”
“Yes,” said Lathom, “and, of course, it’s true in a way. But you mustn’t think that the form of the thing doesn’t matter, too. Whatever the world is made of, there it is, and it’s ours to make something of.”
“It must be marvellous to paint great pictures!” said one of the young women.
Lathom scowled frightfully, and, ostentatiously ignoring her, continued his remarks to Mrs. Harrison in an undertone.
What a conversation, my God! Harrison faded out and I don’t blame him, and I took the opportunity to tackle the parson, a fellow by the name of Perry. He turned out to be an earnest and cultivated middle-aged spike from Keble, and I took the opportunity to mention the Life and the difficulties about Victorian materialism.
“Yes,” he said, “we’ve rather got past that stage now, haven’t we? I’ve got one or two books that I think might be useful to you, as giving the point of view and all that. Shall I send them over?”
I said it was very good of him (not expecting much from it), and, by way of a leg-pull, asked him what he thought of relativity.
“Why, I’m rather grateful to it,” said he, “it makes my job much easier. We’ll have a chat some day and go into it. I must be going now.”