“It is high art, I dare say,” said a fourth, “but isn’t it rather extravagant?”
“If Gillet were in London,” said critic the fifth, who had more instruction than all the others put together, “I should say it was Gillet. As he is not, it might be described as the work of a not unskillful disciple.”
Cheriton stood listening.
“It is the work of a young chap named Lascelles,” said he; “the coming man, I’m told.”
Nobody had told Cheriton that Jim Lascelles was the coming man, and not for a moment did he believe that he was; but he was a member of that useful and considerable body which derives a kind of factitious importance from the making of imposing statements. He felt that it reacted upon his own status to announce that a young chap named Lascelles was the coming man when not a soul had heard of the young chap in question.
“I must remember the name,” said a broad-jowled marquis from Yorkshire, who had come up in time to hear Cheriton’s statement, and who greatly preferred to accept the judgment of others in the fine arts rather than exercise his own. “I should like him to paint Priscilla.”
“The very man to paint Priscilla,” said Cheriton, with conviction. And this, be it written to Cheriton’s credit, was genuine good nature.
“What is the subject?” said the first critic.
“Why, can’t you see?” said a chorus. “It is Caroline Crewkerne’s Gainsborough.”
“Which of ’em?”