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click of the latch informed her that Rudd had made his escape and was now half-way down to the insalubrious gloom of the basement where he dwelt in mystery and disorder. She turned on Ann.
    â€˜The prejudices of the working classes are too absurd—don’t you agree? Mr. Choo-Se-Foo is the most charming man, and yet, just because he is Chinese, Rudd won’t have him in the house. It would be a real distinction to have a genius like Choo-Se-Foo among us, but the masses have positively no appreciation of the arts. Sometimes it makes me wonder if it is worth while to go on.’
    Ann had a quick mental picture of a small, smirking Oriental, cunning and insincere, deprecating his own presence with wearisome false modesty, and sneaking in and out like some large yellow cat. Living at such close quarters made one cautious of offending the other occupants of the house however, so with a show of interest she said:
    â€˜You know I’m afraid I’m terribly ignorant—but just what does Mr. Choo-Se-Foo do?’
    â€˜
Do
!—my child!—but there, once again we see the tragedy of souls pinned down to earth because they are compelled to earn their daily bread. How can you have time for the beauties of life, and for your work? Choo-Se-Foo is, perhaps, the greatest sculptor of our time.’
    â€˜Has he had any exhibitions of his work?’ asked the practical-minded Ann.
    â€˜Well, now, isn’t it strange that you should ask
that
,’ Mrs. Pomfret’s false teeth showed in a wide smile. ‘Only the other day I was saying that we simply must arrange an exhibition for him, but of course he is like a child, my dear—so simple—so unspoiled! Our hard, western commercialisation of beauty is quite beyond the understanding of his delicate mind.’
    Ann felt an intense desire to giggle. She thought it highly probable that the Chinaman was a clever little rogue who made an excellent thing out of the enthusiasms of his arty-crafty European friends; but she was saved the necessity for comment; Mrs. Pomfret had heaved her bulk off the settee and was dragging a heavy parcel from the corner of the room.
    â€˜My dear, I must show you,’ she exclaimed—fumbling with her small useless hands at the wrappings. ‘He lent me this because I know a dealer—really an unusually clever man for his class—and I thought he might be interested. Look, my dear, his Infant Jesus—don’t you think it
quite
remarkable?’
    Remarkable was the word Ann agreed as she gazed with astonished disgust at this monstrosity in stone. A large ball covered with every variety of human face, the expressions varying from benign to mercilessly sadistic; it stood upon two short, splay feet, and two puckered, feeble hands protruded from its upper surface.
    â€˜It is clever, I suppose,’ Ann remarked doubtfully, once more forbearing to offend.
    â€˜Clever!’ Mrs. Pomfret cried, her pale eyes bulging at Ann’s lack of enthusiasm, ‘but it is marvellous—it has such atmosphere—such rhythm!—help me to lift it on to the bookcase, dear, I simply must keep it for just one day.’
    â€˜Rhythm!’ thought Ann impatiently, ‘what utter rot!’ but she helped to lift the figure, and then curled up in her chair again while Mrs. Pomfret stood back to admire this product of a distorted mind, her small hands clasped in an ecstasy of adoration.
    â€˜It makes me feel so … so … Oh! how hard it is to put one’s emotions into words. I wonder if you understand?’
    Ann did not care two kicks what the woman felt, but at that moment Mr. Pomfret limped into the room.
    He was a tall, cadaverous person, moody and silent—which his wife attributed to his great artistic gifts. Unfortunately the British public did not share her appreciation of Mr. Pomfret’s genius, so although he had been writing for some twenty years it was a constant struggle for him