Neither was he in the mood for talk; but Elgar, who had finished his solid meal, and now amused himself with grapes (in two forms), spared him the necessity of anything but an occasional monosyllable.

The young man was elated, and grew more so as he proceeded with his dessert; his cheeks were deeply flushed; his eyes gleamed magnificently.
In the meantime Clifford Marsh had joined in conversation with the Germans; his use of their tongue was far from idiomatic, but by sheer determination to force a way through linguistic obstacles, he talked with a haphazard fluency which was amusing enough.

No false modesty imposed a check upon his eloquence.

It was to the general table that he addressed himself on the topic that had arisen; in an English dress his speech ran somewhat as follows:-- "Gentlemen, allow me to say that I have absolutely no faith in the future of which you speak! It is my opinion that democracy is the fatal enemy of art.

How can you speak of ancient and mediaeval states?
Neither in Greece nor in Italy was there ever what we understand by a democracy." "Factisch! Der Herr hat Recht!" cried some one, and several other voices strove to make themselves heard; but the orator raised his note and overbore interruption.
"You must excuse me, gentlemen, if I say that--however it may be from other points of view--from the standpoint of art, democracy is simply the triumph of ignorance and brutality." ("Gewisz!"-- "Nimmermehr!"-- "Vortrefflich!") "I don't care to draw distinctions between forms of the thing.