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upon him. ‘What have you been writing lately?’ she asked. It would be nice to have a little literary conversation.
    â€˜Oh, verse and prose,’ said Denis – ‘just verse and prose.’
    â€˜Prose?’ Mr Scogan pounced alarmingly on the word. ‘You’ve been writing prose?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Not a novel?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜My poor Denis!’ exclaimed Mr Scogan. ‘What about?’
    Denis felt rather uncomfortable. ‘Oh, about the usual things, you know.’
    â€˜Of course,’ Mr Scogan groaned. ‘I’ll describe the plot for you. Little Percy, the hero, was never good at games, but he was always clever. He passes through the usual public school and the usual university and comes to London, where he lives among the artists. He is bowed down with melancholy thought; he carries the whole weight of the universe upon his shoulders. He writes a novel of dazzling brilliance; he dabbles delicately in Amour and disappears, at the end of the book, into the luminous Future.’
    Denis blushed scarlet. Mr Scogan had described the plan of his novel with an accuracy that was appalling. He made an effort to laugh. ‘You’re entirely wrong,’ he said. ‘My novel is not in the least like that.’ It was a heroic lie. Luckily, he reflected, only two chapters were written. He would tear them up that very evening when he unpacked.
    Mr Scogan paid no attention to his denial, but went on: ‘Why will you young men continue to write about things that are so entirely uninteresting as the mentality of adolescentsand artists? Professional anthropologists might find it interesting to turn sometimes from the beliefs of the Black-fellow to the philosophical preoccupations of the undergraduate. But you can’t expect an ordinary adult man, like myself, to be much moved by the story of his spiritual troubles. And after all, even in England, even in Germany and Russia, there are more adults than adolescents. As for the artist, he is preoccupied with problems that are so utterly unlike those of the ordinary adult man – problems of pure aesthetics which don’t so much as present themselves to people like myself – that a description of his mental processes is as boring to the ordinary reader as a piece of pure mathematics. A serious book about artists regarded as artists is unreadable; and a book about artists regarded as lovers, husbands, dipsomaniacs, heroes, and the like is really not worth writing again. Jean-Christophe is the stock artist of literature, just as Professor Radium of
Comic Cuts
is its stock man of science.’
    â€˜I’m sorry to hear I’m as uninteresting as all that,’ said Gombauld.
    â€˜Not at all, my dear Gombauld,’ Mr Scogan hastened to explain. ‘As a lover or a dipsomaniac, I’ve no doubt of your being a most fascinating specimen. But as a combiner of forms, you must honestly admit it, you’re a bore.’
    â€˜I entirely disagree with you,’ exclaimed Mary. She was somehow always out of breath when she talked, and her speech was punctuated by little gasps. ‘I’ve known a great many artists, and I’ve always found their mentality very interesting. Especially in Paris. Tschuplitski, for example – I saw a great deal of Tschuplitski in Paris this spring. . . .’
    â€˜Ah, but then you’re an exception, Mary, you’re an exception,’ said Mr Scogan. ‘You are a
femme supérieure
.’
    A flush of pleasure turned Mary’s face into a harvest moon.

CHAPTER IV
    DENIS WOKE UP next morning to find the sun shining, the sky serene. He decided to wear white flannel trousers – white flannel trousers and a black jacket, with a silk shirt and his new peach-coloured tie. And what shoes? White was the obvious choice, but there was something rather pleasing about the notion of black patent leather. He lay in bed for several minutes