"What a bear it is!" he said to himself voicelessly once or twice; but he said little openly.
"No. 151—a lion! Ridiculous. Nobody ever saw a lion in that attitude, I'll be bound."
Conceivably, the artist had tried to produce an attitude from life; and Oswald's opportunities of observation had been limited to "the Zoo;" but second-class criticism jumps lightly over such small obstacles.
"No. 152—what's that? A long quotation. Some Eastern bosh or other. No. 153—worse still. A wretched symbolical affair. Mere clap-trap. No. 154—"
"O Oswald, wait a moment. Let me look. That colouring is grand. And the other—yes, I do like it. Don't you, Cyril—look—No. 153! It is wonderful!" Her artistic sense for once proving stronger than her subservience to Oswald. "So much underlying. And that woman's face—"
"Rubbish! Not worth a glance, I tell you. A mere farrago of notions, tossed together. No. 154—"
"Wait! Let her look in peace," interposed Cyril. "Your instinct is right, Jean. It is one of the best this season, not one that makes a great noise, but thought well of by good judges. But you won't get at the full beauty of conception without study."
"I could spend hours over that one face."
"Bosh!" repeated Oswald. "If one man says a picture is good, all the world runs mooning after him to say the same. I've no patience with such humbug. Who ever saw anything like that in real life? The artist must be crazy. Why, I can't make head or tail of the thing—" with an accent on the pronoun which plainly implied—If I can't, who can?
"No. 155—Now, there's something like art, for you! 'In the Chimney-Corner.' No high-flown rubbish, but real everyday life. Just see how the firelight falls on the tongs. And the rug-pattern is perfect—why, it might have been photographed? And the old lady's cap ribbons—positively transparent. And the bunch of flowers on the table—why, you might pick them up. And here's another—No. 156—'Portrait of the Hon. Amelia Jenkinson'—every inch as good. The spots in her veil stand out as if they were genuine."