As the singer by the entrance completed the torture of
his folk-song and, protesting at the lack of applause, slouched out into the street, momentarily flecking the pavement with cubes of light from the panes of the swinging door and the room beyond it, the bar became suddenly still.
M. Latvias, running his eye down the sheet of paper, turned to M. Altmayer. "That appears," he agreed, "in order."
"And now," he added, "there is the question of the Autumn Exhibition. I have a couple of Belgians who do very passable El Greco : and those fellows from Vienna turn out really excellent Breughel."
"We might also," suggested M. Altmayer, "have some nameless Primitives, school of someone or other, for the American influx. What Americans want is a lot of bright colour, and preferably a martyrdom. There arc signs that the invasion will be earlier than usual this year."
" God grant," he piously added, " they come with full purses."
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