Let me see. I must have been battling my way through the Galleries step by step for an hour and three-quarters, and I haven't yet decided which is the best picture.
But then it's no easy matter to make up one's mind when there are so many, many pictures—and so many, many people....
And some of them, I'm sorry to say, are not quite so considerate as they might be. For instance, I had nearly chosen Mr. Clausen's Shepherd Boy: Sunrise. I was imagining the hush, the solitude. Suddenly two inexorable hats were thrust between me and the canvas, while two inexorable voices carried on a detailed discussion about what Doris (whoever Doris may be) was wearing at the wedding yesterday.
It wasn't fair to me; and it wasn't fair to the Shepherd Boy. I know he hasn't got a face, poor fellow. But is that a reason for putting ideas into his head?
It seems to me the crush is fiercer than ever in front of the picture over there. Probably I shall find that to be the best of all; No. 274: Mr. J. J. Shannon's Sir Oswald Stoll. Ah, I see. These ladies are simply using the unfortunate gentleman as a looking-glass to tidy their hair in.
But oh, Sir Oswald, do I really look as tired as all that? Yes, you're right; I am tired. I'll go and sit down.
Not a vacant seat anywhere.... Yes, there is—quick! At the far end of the Galleries. Now isn't it just like the Supreme War Council to have left that one chair empty for me at their table?
No, it's a trick! The artist knew I should never have the effrontery to sit there, right under the Prime Minister's nose. Very well, Mr. Olivier, exhausted though I am, I shall not vote for you either.
There's a dull pain all down my spine. My feet are like lead. Give it up? Never! I will not leave until I have found the masterpiece.
But I can stem the tide no longer. I surrender myself to the mob and let it bear me whither it wills....