“I have bought a picture,” Ancram went on, “by a fellow named Martin, who seems to have sent it out from England. It’s nothing great, but I thought it was a pity to let it go back. That narrow one, nearest to the corner.”
“It is good enough to escape getting a prize,” she laughed. “Yes, I like it rather—a good deal—very much indeed. I wish I were a critic and could tell you why. It will be a pleasure to you; it is so green and cool and still.”
Mr. Ancram’s purchase was of the type that is growing common enough at the May exhibitions—a bit of English landscape on a dull day towards evening, fields and a bank with trees on it, a pool with water-weeds in it, the sky crowding down behind and standing out in front in the quiet water. Perhaps it lacked imagination—there was no young woman leaning out of the canoe to gather water-lilies—but it had been painted with a good deal of knowledge.
Mr. James Springgrove at the moment was talking about it to another gentleman. Mr. Springgrove was one of Calcutta’s humourists. He was also a member of the Board of Revenue; and for these reasons, combined with his subscription, it was originally presumed that Mr. Springgrove understood Art. People generally thought he did, because he was a Director and a member of the Hanging Committee, but this was a mistake. Mr. Springgrove brought his head as nearly as possible into a line with the other gentleman’s head, from which had issued, in weak commendation, the statement that No. 223 reminded it of home.
There was a moment’s pause.
“If you asked what it reminded me of,” said Mr. Springgrove, clapping the other on the back, “I should say verdigris, sir—verdigris.” Mrs. Church and the Honourable Mr. Lewis Ancram looked into each other’s eyes and smiled as long as there was any excuse for smiling.
“I am glad you are not a critic,” he said. She was verging toward the door. “What are you going to do now?”
“Afterward—we meant to drive to Hastings House. John thought there would be time. It is quite near Belvedere, you know. But——And I shall not have another free afternoon for a fortnight.”
They went out in silence, past the baboo who sat behind a table at the receipt of entrance money, and down the steps. The syce opened the carriage door, and Mrs. Church got in. There was a moment’s pause, while the man looked questioningly at Ancram, still holding open the door.