“I'm glad to see you so much in love,” said Sylvester. “It's refreshing.”
“Cynic!” said Roderick. “That's why your hair is turning grey. Look at mine,—fresh as a rose in June. And I'm older than you.”
“How's the Utopia?”
“Colossal. Come, I'll introduce you to Sir Decimus Bland. Lady Derring has fixed me with her glassy eye, and I must obey her call. Sir Decimus, let me present my oldest and most valued friend, Dr. Sylvester Lanyon, the terror of bacilli.”
Sir Decimus was a portly red-faced man who, from a habit of holding his hands in front of him, looked as if he were supporting a model of one of his Art galleries after the self-conscious manner of a “donor,” supporting his church in the company of various saints in an old Italian painting. He puffed as he spoke and glared amiably through a single eye-glass.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Dr. Lanyon,” said he. “Your name is a household word in the domain of science. In our domain we also have bacilli to fight against,—commercialism, insincerity, all the cankers that destroy the soul of art.”
“So you are going to choose an environment unsuitable for their development, I hear,” said Sylvester.
“Yes, the Walden Art Colony. I am, as you may know, guaranteeing the Director's salary. Our fortunate friend is just the man for the post.”
“When do you think it will take practical shape?” asked Sylvester.
“We hope to start next spring—and under very happy auspices. I look upon this as a fitting culmination to the poor services I have been able to render to Art in this country. Are you interested in the movement, Dr. Lanyon?”