tortion? Was it humanly possible? What could make so many mirrors twist the truth?
Well, I seemed to see that too; and it was the queerest sight of all. Just a little bit, of course, it was the result of our way of lazily relying on reflectors instead of staring straight and hard at the roof—exactly like the fatigued souls you see in the Sistine thankfully accepting little looking-glasses from the guides, into which you can certainly look as you loll, but which make Michelangelo's right left and his left right. But there was something far profounder than this. The mad tergiversation was mainly the tragic result—tragic because quite inevitable—of a wild piece of interior treachery—a trick played on Mr. James by his medium. It was caused by a process which perverted its own avowed aims—a process which made Simplicity seek the side of her arch-enemy, and "the Dove" appear a very serpent, and a fresh-hearted adoration for the common home-spun of life seem a philandering with gold-leaf and luxury. It was a supreme example of technical mutiny: it is the most thrilling case of the kind in recent letters. And—I want my three-thousand to trace its twists. Set out in full, scene by scene, it would make a wonderful tale: a perfect sequel, in art, to that Figure in the Carpet of which it is, in life, the precursor. But a rough scenario may have virtue. It is not, after all, for its own effectiveness that one tells the tale—it is for the effect it has on tales already told. It burnishes The Golden Bowl, lends new wonder to The Wings of the Dove. Lacking this clue you may indeed drink deep enjoyment—delighting in the colour and the spaciousness and the bursts of music, the remote clear groups and shining celebrants—but it is a pleasure as incomplete as our poor Protestant delight in the great churches of the Continent. You miss the scheme and the scale—the rationale of the
