“Who told you that?” asked Logan with sudden heat; but before she could answer him Mendel had exploded:—
“It is nothing at all like being in love. That is what all the beastly Christians think of—being in love. And they want art always, always to remind them of that—how they have been, are, or will be in love, as they call it. And what they call being in love is nothing but a filthy lecherous longing, which is a thousand miles beneath love, and twenty thousand miles beneath art, which is so rare, so noble, so beautiful a mystery that only those whom God has chosen can understand it at all; for while you are in this state of longing you can understand, you can feel nothing at all except a hungry delight in yourself and your own sticky sensations. What can women know of art? It needs strength and will, and women have neither; they have only obstinate fancies.”
When he had done he was so astonished at himself that he gasped for breath. Logan and Oliver, gaping at him, seemed ridiculous and little. Talking to them was a waste of breath, because when she was there Logan was not himself, but only a kind of excrescence upon her monstrous vitality. The room seemed to stink. It was airless and reeking with sex. He must get out and away, under the sky, among the trees, upon his beloved Hampstead. . . . Without another word he stalked away.
“Well! I never!” exclaimed Oliver. “Is Kühler in love?”
“Oh! shut up!” said Logan wearily.
For the party the room was cleared and a pianola was hired. The guests were invited to bring their own glasses and drink, and also any friends they liked. The result was that half the habitués of the Paris Café turned up, including Jessie Petrie, Mitchell, and Thompson, who was over for a short time from Paris, very important and mysterious because he had something to do with a forthcoming exhibition of Modern French Art which was to knock London silly. And there was a rumour that Calthrop himself was coming.
Oliver wore a new evening dress, which she had insisted on buying because she was very proud of her bust and arms. The dress was of emerald green silk and she looked very lovely in it—“Like a water nymph,” said Logan, and he went out and bought her a string of red corals to give the finishing touch.
“You won’t have much of this kind of thing when we move,” he said. “It is to be farewell to Bohemia. I’m going to settle down to work. I’ve taught Kühler a thing or two, but he has taught me how to work.”
“Damn Kühler! I hate him,” said Oliver.