think of their commerce, his terms were much too gross.

The suggestion of primitive art was their refuge, and the inner mysteries of sensation their object of worship. Art and Life were to them the Reality and the Unreality.

‘Of course,’ said Gudrun, ‘life doesn’t REALLY matter — it is one’s art which is central. What one does in one’s life has PEU DE RAPPORT, it doesn’t signify much.’

‘Yes, that is so, exactly,’ replied the sculptor. ‘What one does in one’s art, that is the breath of one’s being. What one does in one’s life, that is a bagatelle for the outsiders to fuss about.’

It was curious what a sense of elation and