CHAPTER V––––––––
"Yes, but what will become of the Beautiful?" said Denzil Cantercot.
"Hang the Beautiful!" said Peter Crowl, as if he were on the committee of the Academy. "Give me the True."
Denzil did nothing of the sort. He didn't happen to have it about him.
Denzil Cantercot stood smoking a cigarette in his landlord's shop, and imparting an air of distinction and an agreeable aroma to the close leathery atmosphere. Crowl cobbled away, talking to his tenant without raising his eyes. He was a small, big-headed, sallow, sad-eyed man, with a greasy apron. Denzil was wearing a heavy overcoat with a fur collar. He was never seen without it in public during the winter. In private he removed it and sat in his shirt sleeves. Crowl was a thinker, or thought he was—which seems to involve or
