AT THE NEW GALLERY.
In the Central Hall.
A Potential Purchaser (meeting a friend). Ha—just come in to take a look round, eh? So did I. Fact is—(with a mixture of importance and apology) I rather thought of buying a picture here, if I see anything that takes my fancy—y' know.
His Friend (impressed). Not many who can afford to throw money away on pictures, these hard times!
The P. P. (anxious to disclaim any idea of recklessness). Just the time to pick 'em up cheap, if you know what you're about. And you see, we've had the drawing-room done up, and the wife wants something to fill up the space over her writing-table, between the fireplace and one of the windows. She was to have met me here, but she couldn't turn up, so I shall have to do it all myself—unless you'll come and help me through with it?
His Friend. Oh, if I can be of any use—What sort of thing do you want?
The P. P. Well, that's the difficulty. She says it must match the new paper. I've brought a bit in my pocket with me. His Friend. Then you can't go very far wrong!
The P. P. I don't know. It's a sort of paper that—here, I'd better show it you. (He produces a sample of fiery and untamed colour.) That'll give you an idea of it.
His Friend (inspecting it dubiously). Um—yes. I see you'll have to be careful.
The P. P. Careful, my dear fellow! I assure you I've been all through the Academy, and there wasn't a thing there that could stand it for a single moment—not even the R.A.'s!
[They enter the West Room.
In the West Room.
An Insipid Young Person (before Mr. Tadema's "Unconscious Rivals"). Yes, that's marble, isn't it?
[Smiles with pleasure at her own penetration.
Her Mother (cautiously). I imagine so. (She refers to Catalogue.) Oh! I see it's a Tadema, so of course it's marble. He's the great man for it, you know!
First Painter (who had nothing ready to send in this year). H'm, yes. Can't say I care about the way he's placed his azalea. I should have kept it more to the left, myself.
Second Painter (who sent in, but is not exhibiting). Composition wants bringing together, and the colour scheme is a little unfortunate, but—(generously) I shouldn't call it altogether bad.
First Painter (more grudgingly). Oh, you can see what he was trying for—only—well, it's not the way I should have gone about it.
[They pass on tolerantly.
"There, you see—knocks it all to pieces at once!"
The I. Y. P. Can you make this picture out, Mamma? "The Track of the Strayed?" The Strayed what?
Her Mother. Sheep, I should suppose, my dear—but it would have been more satisfactory certainly if the animal had been shown in the picture.
The I. Y. P. Yes, ever so much. Oh, here's a portrait of Mr. Gladstone reading the Lessons in Hawarden Church. I do like that—don't you?
Her Mother. I'm not sure that I do, my dear. I wonder they permitted the Artist to paint any portrait—even Mr. Gladstone's—during service!
The P. P. (before another canvas). Now that's about the size I want; but I'm not sure that my wife would quite care about the subject.
His Friend. I'm rather fond of these allegorical affairs myself—for a drawing-room, you know.
The P. P. Well, I'll just try the paper against it. (He applies the test, and shakes his head.) "There, you see—knocks it all to pieces at once!"
His Friend. I was afraid it would, y' know. How will this do you—"A Naiad"?
The P. P. I shouldn't object to it myself, but there's the Wife to be considered—and then, a Naiad—eh?
His friend. She's half in the water.
The P. P. Yes, but then—those lily-leaves in her hair, you know, and—and coming up all dripping like that—no, it's hardly worth while bringing out the paper again!
The I. Y. P. Isn't this queer—"Neptune's Horses"?—They can't be intended to represent waves, surely!
Her Mother. It's impossible to tell what the Painter intended, my dear, but I never saw waves so like horses as that.
In the North Room.
The I. Y. P. "Cain's First Crime." Why, he's only feeding a stork! I don't see any crime in that.
Her Mother. He's giving it a live lizard, my dear.
The I. Y. P. But storks like live lizards, don't they? And Adam and Eve are looking on, and don't seem to mind.
Her Mother. I expect that's the moral of it. If they'd taken it away from him, and punished him at the time, he wouldn't have turned out so badly as he did—but it's too late to think of that now!
A Matter-of-fact Person (behind). I wonder, now, where he got his authority for that incident. It's new to me.
In the Balcony.
The Mother of the I. Y. P. Oh, Caroline, you've got the Catalogue—just see what No. 288 is, there's a dear. It seems to be a country-house, and they're having dinner in the garden, and some of the guests have come late, and without dressing, and there's the hostess telling them it's of no consequence. What's the title—"The Uninvited Guests," or "Putting them at their Ease," or what?
The I. Y. P. It only says, "The Rose-Garden at Ashridge (containing portraits of the Earls of Pembroke and Brownlow, the Countesses of ——").
[She reads out the list to the end.
Her Mother. What a nice picture! Though one would have thought such smart folks wouldn't have come to dinner in riding-boots, and shawls, and things—but of course they can afford to be less particular. And the dessert is beautifully done!
In the South Room.
The I. Y. P. Why, here are "Neptune's Horses" again! Don't you remember we saw a picture of them before? But I like this better, because here you get Neptune and his chariot.
Her Mother. He's made his horses a little too like fish, for my taste.
The I. Y. P. I suppose they were a sort of fish—and after all, one isn't expected to believe in all that nowadays, is one? So it doesn't really matter.
First Horsey Man. Tell you what, Old Neptune'll come to awful grief with that turn-out of his in another second.
Second H. M. Rather—regular bolt—and no ribbons to hold 'em by, either!
First H. M. Rummy idea, having cockleshells on the traces.
Second H. M. Oh, I don't know—one of the Hussar regiments has 'em.
First H. M. Ah, so they have. I suppose that's where he got the idea.
[They go out, feeling that the picture is satisfactorily accounted for.
The P. P. (before a small canvas). Yes, this is the right thing at last. The paper doesn't seem to put it out in the least, and the sort of subject, you know, that no one can object to. I've quite fallen in love with it. I don't care what it costs—I positively must have it. I'm sure the wife will be as fond of it as I am. I only hope it's not sold—here, let's go and see.
[They go.
At the Secretary's Table.
The P. P. (turning over the priced Catalogue). Ah, here it is! It's unsold—it's marked down at—(his face falls)—eleven—eleven—that's rather over my limit. (To his Friend.) Do you mind waiting while I try the paper on it once more? (His Friend consents; the P. P. returning, after an interval.) No, I had my doubts from the beginning—it won't do, after all!
His Friend. But I thought you said the paper didn't put it out?
The P. P. It doesn't—but the picture takes all the shine out of the paper.
His Friend. I suppose you couldn't very well change the paper—eh?
The P. P. Change the paper?—when it's only been up a week, and cost seven-and-six the piece! My dear fellow, what are you talking about? No, no—I must see if I can't get a picture to match it at Maple's, that's all.
His Friend (vaguely). Yes, I suppose they understand all that sort of thing there.
[They go out, relieved at having arrived at a decision.
