"I've nothing to say," he remarked, stopping before Shelton, and looking down, as if at last aware of him, "to those who talk of being justified through Art. I call a spade a spade."Shelton did not answer, because he could not tell whether Berryman was addressing him or society at large. And Berryman went on:
"Do we want to know about the feelings of a middle-class woman with a taste for vice? Tell me the point of it. No man who was in the habit of taking baths would choose such a subject.""You come to the question of-ah-subjects," the voice of Trimmer genially buzzed he had gathered his garments tight across his back-"my dear fellow, Art, properly applied, justifies all subjects.""For Art," squeaked Berryman, putting back his second volume and taking down a third, "you have Homer, Cervantes, Shakespeare, Ossian;for garbage, a number of unwashed gentlemen."There was a laugh; Shelton glanced round at all in turn. With the exception of Crocker, who was half asleep and smiling idiotically, they wore, one and all, a look as if by no chance could they consider any subject fit to move their hearts; as if, one and all, they were so profoundly anchored on the sea of life that waves could only seem impertinent. It may have been some glimmer in this glance of Shelton's that brought Trimmer once more to the rescue with his compromising air.
"The French," said he, "have quite a different standard from ourselves in literature, just as they have a different standard in regard to honour. All this is purely artificial."What he, meant, however, Shelton found it difficult to tell.
"Honour," said Washer, "'l'honneur, die Ehre' duelling, unfaithful wives---"He was clearly going to add to this, but it was lost; for the little fat man, taking the meerschaum with trembling fingers, and holding it within two inches of his chin, murmured:
"You fellows, Berryman's awf'ly strong on honour."He blinked twice, and put the meerschaum back between his lips.
Without returning the third volume to its shelf, Berryman took down a fourth; with chest expanded, he appeared about to use the books as dumb-bells.
"Quite so," said Trimmer; "the change from duelling to law courts is profoundly---"Whether he were going to say "significant" or "insignificant," in Shelton's estimate he did not know himself. Fortunately Berryman broke in:
"Law courts or not, when a man runs away with a wife of mine, I shall punch his head!""Come, come!" said Turner, spasmodically grasping his two wings.
Shelton had a gleam of inspiration. "If your wife deceived you," he thought, looking at Trimmer's eyes, "you 'd keep it quiet, and hold it over her."Washer passed his hand over his pale chaps: his smile had never wavered; he looked like one for ever lost in the making of an epigram.
The punching theorist stretched his body, holding the books level with his shoulders, as though to stone his hearers with his point of view. His face grew paler, his fine eyes finer, his lips ironical.
Almost painful was this combination of the "strong" man and the student who was bound to go to pieces if you hit him a smart blow.
"As for forgiving faithless wives," he said, "and all that sort of thing, I don't believe in sentiment."The words were high-pitched and sarcastic. Shelton looked hastily around. All their faces were complacent. He grew red, and suddenly remarked, in a soft; clear voice:
"I see!"
He was conscious that he had never before made an impression of this sort, and that he never would again. The cold hostility flashing out all round was most enlightening; it instantly gave way to the polite, satirical indulgence peculiar to highly-cultivated men. Crocker rose nervously; he seemed scared, and was obviously relieved when Shelton, following his example, grasped the little fat man's hand, who said good-night in a voice shaken by tobacco.
"Who are your unshaven friends?" he heard as the door was closed behind them.
