"Well, there's a screw loose somewhere," he answered; "wait a bit and I'll discover it." I depended upon him to do so: where else was the fresh eye?
But he produced at last nothing more luminous than "I don't know--I don't like your types." This was lame for a critic who had never consented to discuss with me anything but the question of execution, the direction of strokes and the mystery of values.
"In the drawings you've been looking at I think my types are very handsome." "Oh they won't do!" "I've been working with new models." "I see you have.

THEY won't do." "Are you very sure of that ?" "Absolutely--they're stupid." "You mean I am--for I ought to get round that." "You can't--with such people.

Who are they ?" I told him, so far as was necessary, and he concluded heartlessly: "CE SONT DES GENS QU'IL FAUT METTRE A LA PORTE." "You've never seen them; they're awfully good"-- I flew to their defence.
"Not seen them?
Why all this recent work of yours drops to pieces with them.

It's all I want to see of them." "No one else has said anything against it--the CHEAPSIDE people are pleased." "Every one else is an ass, and the CHEAPSIDE people the biggest asses of all.

Come, don't pretend at this time of day to have pretty illusions about the public, especially about publishers and editors.