“Concentration is easily dislocated,” said Wynne, choosing his words carefully, “attention is dependent upon circumstance and atmosphere.”
“Good, enough, O most wise Telemachus,” came the answer, with a mixture of agreement and cynicism, “the very reason for my invitation. How the devil shall a man keep his mind on this” (he nodded at the picture) “while this herd is using the Gallery as a shelter from the rain?”
Wynne laughed. An attack on the people always gave him pleasure.
“That’s a fair statement of the case. The sun’ll be out in a minute,” he cocked his eye to the sky-light. “Then we shall have the place to ourselves. Mark my words.”
“They’ve no artistic appreciation,” said Wynne, feeling on safe ground. “A very bovine race, the English.”
“Tommy rot!” said the old gentleman, unexpectedly; “don’t talk drivelling nonsense. Best race in the world, the English, but they won’t let ’emselves go.”
“Well, doesn’t that amount to—”
“No, it don’t. You can’t judge the speed of a racehorse while he is munching oats in a stable.”
“No, sir; but presumably the people should come here to appreciate. They can do their munching at home.”
“Rubbish! English folk are too shy to express appreciation. That’s the trouble with ’em—shyness. National code! They keep away from all matters likely to excite ’em artistically for fear of being startled into expressing their true feelings. Englishmen’s idea of bad form, expression! Damn fine people! Bovine? Not a bit of it!”