“It’s all very well, but their ideal is smooth things,” persisted Butler, vehemently. “Smooth things in paint, in life, and in after-dinner speeches. I should have taken the Gold Medal in my year, and been spared years of grinding misery, if I had scraped out the life with a fish-shell or a razor-blade.”
Matt’s eyes flashed sympathetic admiration at him.
“Bother the Academy!” said Herbert, hastily. “Pass me the jug.”
“Schools of Arts are barracks,” went on Butler, his resentment unexhausted. “They would fuse all talents in one mould, and put together what God has put asunder. You may teach craft; but Art—never!”
“The idea of setting a subject, too,” said Greme, who was very proud of his private color-vision. “They go on a false analogy. Art can’t be got at by a competitive examination. It isn’t like Latin or Greek, or the use of the globes; it’s the expression of individual temperament. And it’s always such a rotten, stilted subject they set for the Gold Medal. I wonder what it is this year?”
“Strang’s at the Academy,” said Rapper. “He’ll tell you.”
“Oh, confound the Academy!” said Herbert, crossly.
“Something Biblical, you bet your boots,” said Jimmy. “It makes the fellows read the Bible, anyhow. But I must really go and meet my wife.”
“I heard it was about Nebu—” Greme began.
“Here, shut up, Greme!” interrupted Herbert. “Isn’t it time to sing songs?”