the question of execution, the direction of strokes and the mystery of values.
"In the drawings you've been looking at I think my types are very handsome."
"Oh, they won't do!"
"I've had a couple of new models."
"I see you have. They won't do."
"Are you very sure of that?"
"Absolutely—they're stupid."
"You mean I am—for I ought to get round that."
"You can't—with such people. Who are they?"
I told him, as far as was necessary, and he declared, heartlessly: "Ce sont des gens qu'il faut mettre à la porte."
"You've never seen them; they're awfully good," I compassionately objected.
"Not seen them? Why, all this recent work of yours drops to pieces with them. It's all I want to see of them."
"No one else has said anything against it—the Cheapside people are pleased."
"Everyone else is an ass, and the Cheapside people the biggest asses of all. Come, don't pretend, at this time of day, to have pretty illusions about the public, especially about publishers and editors. It's not for such animals you work—it's for those who know, coloro che sanno; so keep straight for me if you can't keep straight for yourself. There's a certain sort of thing you tried for from the first—and a very good thing it is. But this twaddle isn't in it." When
