"Why do you take those particular forms—sordid forms?"
"Because they interest me."
"Yes, but why do they interest you? It seems to me that art ought to show us the beautiful, the ideal—not sordid, revolting things." She was genuinely moved. Her eyes looked near to tears. "Life is too terrible when you take it that way—you play with it!"
"No," said Basil. "I try only to show it as it seems to me in some of its significant aspects. I don't claim anything large in the way of art for these sketches—but one might perhaps detect some sort of intellectual intention in them. They're comments on social man—man at play, trying to amuse himself. Perhaps you've noticed that nearly all of them are that."
"Yes, and you satirise the poor creatures, you make them more tragic than they are in reality! I can't see any beauty in that!"
"You really haven't seen what I've tried to do," said Basil positively. "And I believe it's your fault and not mine. As to reality what, dear Mrs. Perry, can you know about the reality of these people? … And I think your idea of beauty might seem rather chromo-lithographic to me—something like Greuze, perhaps? Or, perhaps, I don't know what you mean by beauty. I assure you that I see enormous interest in some of those things I've done—in the subjects of them,
