“I consider the colour is disappointing,” observed Wynne—“disappointing and improbable. When one comes to consider that Madame Récamier held in her day the most popular Salon in Paris, and reflects that to do so she must inevitably have been demimondaine of the demimondaine, one is justified in expecting an added brilliance to the cheeks and an added scarlet to the lips.”
Hereupon Mr. Johns favoured Wynne with a warning look, which he was pleased to ignore.
“This particular canvas is illustrative of what somebody—I think Samuel Butler—said, that a portrait is never so much of the sitter as of the artist. Shall we take some of the older masters next?”
He led the way to an inner gallery, the Johns family trooping behind him. As they passed through the arched doorway Mr. and Mrs. Johns exchanged glances as though to say:
“I think we have made a great mistake introducing this young man into our God-fearing midst!”
Before the canvases of the Old Masters Wynne expanded his views with great liberality. Correggio and Botticelli were favoured with a kindly mention, Rembrandt was patted on the back, and Raphael severely criticized. An ill-advised appreciation of a canvas by Jordeans brought upon Mr. Johns a vigorous attack:
“Oh, believe me, very second-rate indeed. A mere copyist of Rubens, who, himself, in no way justified the position of being a target at which a self-respecting artist should aim. Here is a Titian now—”
“Oh, really!” said Mrs. Johns. “I’ve often heard of Titian red. Do you see, father, that’s a Titian.”
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Johns, consulting his catalogue. “So it is. Seems good!”
“Very wonderful how the colours last so long. Isn’t it pretty, Vincent?”