"Thank you," he said; and moved by a sort of irritation, added: "Glad to
hear you like beauty; that's rare, nowadays."
"I dote on it," said the young man; "but you and I are the last of the
old guard, sir."
Soames smiled.
"If you really care for pictures," he said, "here's my card. I can show
you some quite good ones any Sunday, if you're down the river and care
to look in."
"Awfully nice of you, sir. I'll drop in like a bird. My name's
Mont-Michael." And he took off his hat.
Soames, already regretting his impulse, raised his own slightly in
response, with a downward look at the young man's companion, who had a
purple tie, dreadful little sluglike whiskers, and a scornful look--as
if he were a poet!
It was the first indiscretion he had committed for so long that he went
and sat down in an alcove. What had possessed him to give his card to a
rackety young fellow, who went about with a thing like that? And Fleur,
always at the back of his thoughts, started out like a filigree figure
from a clock when the hour strikes. On the screen opposite the alcove
was a large canvas with a great many square tomato-coloured blobs on
it, and nothing else, so far as Soames could see from where he sat.
He looked at his catalogue: "No. 32 'The Future Town'--Paul Post." 'I
suppose that's satiric too,' he thought. 'What a thing!' But his second
impulse was more cautious. It did not do to condemn hurriedly. There had
been those stripey, streaky creations of Monet's, which had turned out
such trumps; and then the stippled school; and Gauguin. Why, even since
the Post-Impressionists there had been one or two painters not to be
sneezed at. During the thirty-eight years of his connoisseur's life,
indeed, he had marked so many "movements," seen the tides of taste and
technique so ebb and flow, that there was really no telling anything
except that there was money to be made out of every change of fashion.
This too might quite well be a case where one must subdue primordial
instinct, or lose the market. He got up and stood before the picture,
trying hard to see it with the eyes of other people. Above the tomato
blobs was what he took to be a sunset, till some one passing said: "He's
got the airplanes wonderfully, don't you think!" Below the tomato blobs
was a band of white with vertical black stripes, to which he could
assign no meaning whatever, till some one else came by, murmuring: "What
expression he gets with his foreground!" Expression? Of what? Soames
went back to his seat. The thing was "rich," as his father would have
said, and he wouldn't give a damn for it. Expression! Ah! they were all
Expressionists now, he had heard, on the Continent. So it was coming
here too, was it? He remembered the first wave of influenza in 1887--or
'8--hatched in China, so they said. He wondered where this--this
Expressionism had been hatched. The thing was a regular disease!