That the old-time flavor could sometimes reappear, however, was evident
from the talk going on about nine o'clock on the evening of the day of
Edith's luncheon. The approach of the time set for an exhibition of
paintings in the gallery of the club turned the conversation toward
art, and as several of the quondam Pagans were present, the old habits
of speech reasserted themselves somewhat.
"I understand Fenton's going to let us see his new picture," somebody
said.
"He is if he gets it done," Tom Bently answered. "He's painting so many
portraits nowadays that he didn't get it finished for the New York
exhibition."
"He must be making a lot of money," Fred Rangely observed.
"He needs to to keep his poker playing up," commented Ainsworth.
"He's lucky if he makes money in these days when it's the swell thing
to have some foreign duffer paint all the portraits," Bently said. "It
makes me sick to see the way Englishmen rake in the dollars over here."
"How would you feel," asked Rangely, "if you tried to get a living by
writing novels, and found the market glutted with pirated English
reprints?"
"Oh, novels," retorted Tom, "they are of no account any way. Modern
novels are like modern investments; they are all principle and no
interest."
"I like that," put in Ainsworth, "when most of them haven't any
principle at all.
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