Her Mother. I'm not sure that I do, my dear. I wonder they permitted the Artist to paint any portrait—even Mr. Gladstone's—during service!
The P. P. (before another canvas). Now that's about the size I want; but I'm not sure that my wife would quite care about the subject.
His Friend. I'm rather fond of these allegorical affairs myself—for a drawing-room, you know.
The P. P. Well, I'll just try the paper against it. (He applies the test, and shakes his head.) "There, you see—knocks it all to pieces at once!"
His Friend. I was afraid it would, y' know. How will this do you—"A Naiad"?
The P. P. I shouldn't object to it myself, but there's the Wife to be considered—and then, a Naiad—eh?
His friend. She's half in the water.
The P. P. Yes, but then—those lily-leaves in her hair, you know, and—and coming up all dripping like that—no, it's hardly worth while bringing out the paper again!
The I. Y. P. Isn't this queer—"Neptune's Horses"?—They can't be intended to represent waves, surely!
Her Mother. It's impossible to tell what the Painter intended, my dear, but I never saw waves so like horses as that.