"Have you been to the Grafton? I was persuaded to go. I think, myself, there's a great deal too much fuss made about pictures nowadays. When one thinks of the money that's wasted on them, when it might be sent to a hospital, it makes one's blood boil! And some of those that are made the most fuss about—both the Old Masters and the very new ones—these post-men, or whatever they're called—seem to me perfect nonsense. A daub and a splash—no real trouble taken—and then you're expected to rave about it. There's one man—some one wants me to buy a picture of his—he paints all his pictures in tiny squares of different colours; when you're close you can't see anything, but it seems that if you walk five feet away it forms into a kind of pattern. It seems it's the tessellated school, and they tell me that in a few years nothing else will count. And what I thought was a mountain in a mist turns out to be 'A Nun with cows grazing.' Silly nonsense I call it!"
"Was the nun grazing, or the cows?" asked Mrs. Wyburn.
"Goodness knows, dear. Then there was that other one called Waning Day, or something. Two people in a boat sailing on dry land! Then that picture of a purple man with a green beard! Oh, my dear! The people who took me there told me it was full of—something French—essayage, or mouvement, I think. The man who tried to make me buy it said it was symbolical. But of course I refused. You know I never have anything to do with nonsense. Well now, my dear——" Taking pity on Mrs. Wyburn's extreme impatience, Miss Westbury came a little nearer. "What I heard was simply this. My cousin, Jane Totness, took her little boy, who is in London for the holidays, to the British Museum. She always likes to improve his mind as much as possible; besides, he had been promised a treat after having a tooth out; the first week of the holidays he always has a tooth out and a treat after. Jane is like that; she's a sensible woman, and I must say I think she brings her boys up very well. I myself might have been more inclined to take him to Madame Tussaud's, or even to a matinée, or to have an ice at Buzzard's; but I dare say I'm old-fashioned enough in some ways, and Jane knows her own business best."
"No doubt she does," said Mrs. Wyburn, quivering with impatience, tapping her foot on the floor, and trying to restrain herself. "And so she took the little boy—Charlie, isn't it?—to the British Museum? Go on, dear!"
"Not Charlie, Mrs. Wyburn. It was little Laurence—little Laurence. He was called Laurence after his grandfather, Lord Dorking. It's the rule in the Totness family; the second son is always called after the grandfather, the eldest son after his father, and the third son—I mean, of course, if there is one—after the mother's father. Don't you think it's a very sensible plan, dear?"
Mrs. Wyburn gave her friend first a sympathetic smile, and then a murderous glance.
"Yes. Well?"
"Oh yes. Well, she was just pointing out something to little Laurence—he's an intelligent boy, and I dare say he was enjoying it very much—when, to her great surprise, who should she see but Mrs. Romer Wyburn, talking away like anything on a seat with—who do you think?"
"Who?"
"That young man Harry de Freyne—her cousin, isn't it?"