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René disapproved of his host's orthodoxy in the matter of painting, of his tame acceptance of fashionable pressure, and the values imposed. He regarded these values as an offence, when sponsored by a stupid man. Percy was a prize idiot, he had no right to these views—he should be collecting Academic monstrosities. So, refusing to take Percy's avantgardisme seriously, he nevertheless always enquired with great politeness about any new purchase, which was usually to be found on the walls.

'A new one I think.'

He had observed something which it seemed to him he had not seen before: the figure of a hanging man in some enclosed place, with a number of big-headed, round-faced marionettes, all expressing blood-lust and derision. One pulled at the rope, one lighted an immodestly-carved pipe of great size. A dog scratched itself, with a flea nearly as large as the dog squatting on its rump. He examined it an inch from the glass, très amateur.

'Ecole de Paris?' he enquired.

'No,' Percy told him. 'This is a Belgian etcher of the nineteenth century. His name is Ensor. I am not quite sure how much I like him.'