“Do you think the exhibition of the Royal Academy is equal to the last one?”
“I think it is better,” said Mrs. Lascelles, with an air of conviction, “decidedly better, don’t you?”
“That is because there is a picture by a young fellow of the name of Lascelles in it,” said Jim.
“Quite a sufficient reason,” said Cheriton.
“The brutes have skyed me, though,” said Jim.
“Jealousy, my dear fellow,” said Cheriton. “The Church, the stage, and the fine arts live in perpetual dread of the rising generation.”
“That is so true, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim’s mother. “I am so glad to hear you say that. Of course it is jealousy. Those musty and stereotyped old R.A.’s are dreadfully frightened of young men with new ideas.”
“Profoundly true, my dear Mrs. Lascelles; profoundly true,” said Cheriton, with the deference of a courtier.
“My mother expects every one who enters this house,” said Jim, aggrievedly, “to declare that I’m a genius.”
“I do not find it at all hard,” said Cheriton, “to obey that condition.”