Anthon made no pretence of looking at pictures. A few schools only appealed to him, and he liked the National Gallery on pay-days when you were likely to meet people you knew and had plenty of elbow-room. This nursery-maid expedition was purely for the girl’s sake; he watched her as she peered here and there and made audacious remarks. As they came out into the square hall beyond the Watteaus and Chardonels, Anthon caught sight of his uncle leaning over to examine a portrait. His manner was absorbed, as if the place had put a spell upon him and he was dreaming.
“Let’s go in here,” Walter Anthon said hurriedly. “The old man there is my uncle, and he is a dreadful bore.”
They found themselves in the bustle of the modern French room. Here were younger copyists, ragged boys and girls, dowdy women, who idled about from easel to easel gossiping in loud tones.
“I don’t believe he was a bore,” Miss Parker remarked thoughtfully, “he looked like such a nice old gentleman, and rather tired.”
“All my family are bores,” Anthon replied deprecatingly. Miss Parker opened her eyes in surprise. “Except possibly my sister—I don’t know what she will do with herself. She will probably do something idiotic, though. You ought to know her; you might do her some good, teach her to take herself more simply.”
“Do you think so?” Miss Parker asked timidly.
They were standing in a corner near a small Corot that was being painfully copied by an anæmic-looking young fellow.
“I never come here,” her companion continued irrelevantly, “without wondering what all these poor devils think they are doing”; he glanced about at the copyists.
“Perhaps they love it.” Then she changed the topic as if aware that Anthon did not show himself at his best in his criticism of life. “Do you know a Mr. Erard?”
“My uncle knows enough about him! Devilish clever, they say. He never got on well in London, though. Something of a cad, I fancy; but I am told he knows pictures. What do you know of him?”