"Gervase doesn't believe in anything but Art," he said, as though half apologizing for his friend: "Art is the sole object of his existence; I don't believe he ever has time to think about anything else."
"Of what else should I think, mon ami?" exclaimed Gervase mirthfully. "Of life? It is all Art to me; and by Art I mean the idealization and transfiguration of Nature."
"Oh, if you do that sort of thing you are a romancist," interposed Dr. Dean emphatically. "Nature neither idealizes nor transfigures itself; it is simply Nature and no more. Matter uncontrolled by Spirit is anything but ideal."
"Precisely," answered Gervase quickly and with some warmth; "but my spirit idealizes it,—my imagination sees beyond it,—my soul grasps it."
"Oh, you have a soul?" exclaimed Dr. Dean, beginning to laugh again. " Now, how did you find that out?"
Gervase looked at him in a sudden surprise.
"Every man has an inward self, naturally," he said. "We call it 'soul' as a figure of speech; it is really temperament merely."
"Oh, it is merely temperament? Then you don't think it is likely to outlive you,
