“Much my sentiments, sir.”
Michael flourished his cigar.
“Bad old men, you two!”
And removing their hats, they passed the Cenotaph.
“Curiously symptomatic—that thing,” said Sir Lawrence; “monument to the dread of swank—most characteristic. And the dread of swank—”
“Go on, Bart,” said Michael.
“The fine, the large, the florid—all off! No far-sighted views, no big schemes, no great principles, no great religion, or great art—aestheticism in cliques and backwaters, small men in small hats.”
“As panteth the heart after Byron, Wilberforce, and the Nelson Monument. My poor old Bart! What about it, Wilfrid?”
“Yes, Mr. Desert—what about it?”
Desert’s dark face contracted.
“It’s an age of paradox,” he said. “We all kick up for freedom, and the only institutions gaining strength are Socialism and the Roman Catholic Church. We’re frightfully self-conscious about art—and the only art development is the cinema. We’re nuts on peace—and all we’re doing about it is to perfect poison gas.”
Sir Lawrence glanced sideways at a young man so bitter.
“And how’s publishing, Michael?”
“Well, ‘Copper Coin’ is selling like hot cakes; and there’s quite a movement in ‘A Duet.’ What about this for a new ad.: ‘A Duet, by Sir Lawrence Mont, Bart. The most distinguished Conversation ever held between the Dead.’ That ought to get the psychic. Wilfrid suggested ‘G.O.M. and Dizzy—broadcasted from Hell.’ Which do you like best?”