"This is a monotype," said Mr. Buckingham Smith, picking up a dusty print off the window-sill. "I do one occasionally."
"Did you do this?" asked George, who had no idea what a monotype was and dared not inquire.
"Yes. They're rather amusing to do. You just use a match or your finger or anything."
"It's jolly good," said George. "D'you know, it reminds me a bit of Cézanne."
Of course it was in Paris that he had heard of the great original, the martyr and saviour of modern painting. Equally of course it was Mr. Enwright who had inducted him into the esoteric cult of Cézanne, and magically made him see marvels in what at the first view had struck him as a wilful and clumsy absurdity.
"Oh!" murmured Buck, stiffening.
"What do you think of Cézanne?"
"Rule it out!" said Buck, with a warning cantankerous inflection, firmly and almost brutally reproving this conversational delinquency of George's. "Rule it out, young man! We don't want any of that sort of mountebanking in England. We know what it's worth."
George was cowed. More, his faith in Cézanne was shaken. He smiled sheepishly and was angry with himself. Then he heard Mr. Prince saying calmly and easily to Miss Haim—the little old man could not in fact be so nervous as he seemed:
"I suppose you wouldn't come with me to the Prom?"