Chapter 23

CHAPTER XXIII.

Gombauld was by no means so furious at their apparition as Denis
had hoped and expected he would be. Indeed, he was rather
pleased than annoyed when the two faces, one brown and pointed,
the other round and pale, appeared in the frame of the open door.
The energy born of his restless irritation was dying within him,
returning to its emotional elements. A moment more and he would
have been losing his temper again--and Anne would be keeping
hers, infuriatingly. Yes, he was positively glad to see them.

"Come in, come in," he called out hospitably.

Followed by Mr. Scogan, Denis climbed the little ladder and
stepped over the threshold. He looked suspiciously from Gombauld
to his sitter, and could learn nothing from the expression of
their faces except that they both seemed pleased to see the
visitors. Were they really glad, or were they cunningly
simulating gladness? He wondered.

Mr. Scogan, meanwhile, was looking at the portrait.

"Excellent," he said approvingly, "excellent. Almost too true to
character, if that is possible; yes, positively too true. But
I'm surprised to find you putting in all this psychology
business." He pointed to the face, and with his extended finger
followed the slack curves of the painted figure. "I thought you
were one of the fellows who went in exclusively for balanced
masses and impinging planes."

Gombauld laughed. "This is a little infidelity," he said.

"I'm sorry," said Mr. Scogan. "I for one, without ever having
had the slightest appreciation of painting, have always taken
particular pleasure in Cubismus. I like to see pictures from
which nature has been completely banished, pictures which are
exclusively the product of the human mind. They give me the same
pleasure as I derive from a good piece of reasoning or a
mathematical problem or an achievement of engineering. Nature,
or anything that reminds me of nature, disturbs me; it is too
large, too complicated, above all too utterly pointless and
incomprehensible. I am at home with the works of man; if I
choose to set my mind to it, I can understand anything that any
man has made or thought. That is why I always travel by Tube,
never by bus if I can possibly help it. For, travelling by bus,
one can't avoid seeing, even in London, a few stray works of God
--the sky, for example, an occasional tree, the flowers in the
window-boxes. But travel by Tube and you see nothing but the
works of man--iron riveted into geometrical forms, straight lines
of concrete, patterned expanses of tiles. All is human and the
product of friendly and comprehensible minds. All philosophies
and all religions--what are they but spiritual Tubes bored
through the universe! Through these