The conversation veered to the subject of Mervyn Blake’s lecture at the literary meeting that afternoon-“The Structure of the Novel”-and then Martin Lubers had to throw one of his grenades, the temptation being too strong to be resisted.

“Which is preferable,” he asked, “an imperfectly constructed skeleton covered with healthy flesh and vitalized with good, red blood, or a perfectly constructed skeleton covered with parchment and pigment with watered ink?”

“Why be anatomical?” complained Twyford Arundal, who was fast reaching the point when his voice failed “Don’t be difficult, my dear Martin.”

Marshall Ellis eased himself in his chair, lit another cigar, belched, and opened his mouth. Everyone but Nancy Chesterfield knew what threatened, but the menace was averted by the iconoclastic Lubers, who, being a Director of Talks on theA.B. C., was not a person to be ruthlessly crushed.

“You have been discussing the structure of the novel as though the novel is an established science,” he said. “No art can be a science, like ballistics or material stresses. Not once have you mentioned the vital essentials of fiction, inspiration, and imagination, and the ability to believe in what is imagined. Without these essentials, the perfectly constructed novel is merely a thing of words.”

Marshall Ellis’s cheeks were being puffed out and drawn in. He grunted to command attention, and Wilcannia-Smythe took up the challenge in time to thwart him.

“If we may assume, Lubers, that your preference is for the crooked skeleton covered with bulging fat, give us examples,” he urged.

“Very well, I will,” assented Lubers. “You, Blake, were stressing the importance of deliberate analysis and the even progress of pure drama, the novelist’s imagination to be subservient to the language he employs.