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‘I’ve met him in the Latin Quarter in Paris, and I’ve met
him in pensions in Berlin and Munich. He lives in small ho-
tels in Perugia and Assisi. He stands by the dozen before the
Botticellis in Florence, and he sits on all the benches of the
Sistine Chapel in Rome. In Italy he drinks a little too much
wine, and in Germany he drinks a great deal too much beer.
He always admires the right thing whatever the right thing
is, and one of these days he’s going to write a great work.
Think of it, there are a hundred and forty-seven great works
reposing in the bosoms of a hundred and forty-seven great
men, and the tragic thing is that not one of those hundred
and forty-seven great works will ever be written. And yet
the world goes on.’
Weeks spoke seriously, but his gray eyes twinkled a little
at the end of his long speech, and Philip flushed when he
saw that the American was making fun of him.
‘You do talk rot,’ he said crossly.

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