‘Order it for me, please. The man could draw, couldn’t he? Look at the design of embroidery on the coat of that fellow kneeling there. There’s nothing messy about that. But it doesn’t seem much of a poem as far as I can judge. Not my idea of poetry; there’s more poetry in the prose of the Morte d’Arthur. Take a cigarette and make yourself comfortable.’
He paused a moment.
‘Or perhaps you’d sooner not stop and talk to-day after your news,’ he said.
Propert shook his head.
‘No, sir, I should like to stop.... Of course the Rape of the Lock is artificial: it belongs to its age: it’s got no more reality than a Watteau picture——’
‘Watteau?’ asked Keeling.
‘Yes; you’ve got a book of reproductions of Watteau drawings. I don’t think you cared for it much. Picnics and fêtes, and groups of people under trees.’
Keeling nodded.
‘I remember. Stupid, insipid sort of thing. I never could make out why you recommended me to buy it.’
‘I can sell it again for more than you paid for it, sir. The price of it has gone up considerably.’