"What do you mean by your old age?" Paul Overt asked.
"It has made me old. But I like your youth."
Overt answered nothing—they sat for a minute in silence. They heard the others talking about the governmental majority. Then, "What do you mean by false gods?" Paul inquired.
"The idols of the market—money and luxury and 'the world,' placing one's children and dressing one's wife—everything that drives one to the short and easy way. Ah, the vile things they make one do!"
"But surely one is right to want to place one's children."
"One has no business to have any children," St. George declared, placidly. "I mean of course if one wants to do something good."
"But aren't they an inspiration—an incentive?"
"An incentive to damnation, artistically speaking."
"You touch on very deep things—things I should like to discuss with you," Paul Overt said. "I should like you to tell me volumes about yourself. This is a festival for me!"
"Of course it is, cruel youth. But to show you that I'm still not incapable, degraded as I am, of an act of faith, I'll tie my vanity to the stake for you and burn it to ashes. You must come and see me—you must come and see us. Mrs. St. George is charming; I don't know whether you have had any opportunity to talk with her. She will be delighted to see you; she likes great celebrities, whether incipient or predominant. You must come and dine—my wife will write to you. Where are you to be found?"
"This is my little address"—and Overt drew out his pocketbook and extracted a visiting-card. On second
