Somebody had said that Bulstrode should have his portrait done with his hands in his pockets, and Mrs. Falconer had replied, "Or rather with other people's hands in his pockets!"
The next afternoon he found himself part of a group of people who, out of charity and curiosity, patronized the Western Artists' Exhibition in the Rue Monsieur.
Having made a ridiculously generous donation to the support of this league at the request of a certain lovely lady, Bulstrode followed his generosity by a personal effort, and with not much opposition on his part permitted himself to be taken to the exhibition.
He was not, in the ultra sense of the word, a connaisseur, but he thought he knew a horror when he saw it! So he said, and on this afternoon his eyes ached and his offended taste cried out before he had patiently travelled half-way down the line of canvases.
"My dear lady," he confided sotto voce to his friend, "I feel more inclined to establish a fund for sending all these young women back to the prairies, if that's where they come from, than to aid in this slaughter of public time and taste. Why don't they stay at home—and marry?"
"That's a vulgar and limited point of view to take," his friend reproached him. "Don't you acknowledge that a woman has many careers instead of one? You seem to be thoroughly enjoying your liberty! What if I should ask you why you don't stay at home, and marry?"
Bulstrode looked at his guide comprehensively and smiled gently. His response was irrelevant. "Look at this picture! It's too dreadful for words."
"Hush, you're not a judge. Here and there there is evidence of great talent."
They had drawn up before a portrait, and poor Bulstrode caught his breath with a groan:
"It's too awful! It's crime to encourage it."