Quite a distinguished gathering, wasn't it, Eugenia? So pleasant coming across dear Lady Highsniff like that. Your father and I met her in the Riviera, you know. She knew me directly I introduced myself. That's one thing about Art, it does bring you into the very best society. No, I can't say I cared much about his pictures this year—portraits are so very uninteresting, you know—they tell you nothing, unless you happen to know the people, and then you never recognise them. I thought all his were dreadful. Oh, I know I said I should expect to see them all hung on the line—but what of that? One can't be perfectly candid in the world, my dear, much as one would wish to be. What is that you're saying? "On the Hanging Committee this year?" How can you possibly know? "You heard him say so?" Then you ought to have stopped me, instead of standing there like a shy school-girl. Not that he would think I meant anything by a remark like that—why should he? I'm sure I tried to say everything that was pleasant!
I hope I am the last person to practise insincerity, my dear,—it's a thing I have the greatest horror of. Only one doesn't like to hurt people's feelings, don't you see? One can only just hint that a picture isn't quite—especially when one doesn't pretend to know much about it. Not that I am incapable of speaking out when I feel it my duty. If one sees where a little improvement would make all the difference, one ought to mention it. And Artists are so grateful for suggestions of that kind—they like to know how it strikes a perfectly fresh eye. I remember telling the President last year that one of his figures was just a leetle bit out of drawing, and that the folds of his drapery didn't hang right, and he bowed most beautifully and thanked me—but when I came to see the picture exhibited, I found he hadn't altered it a bit! So it really is hardly worth while speaking plainly—painters are so very opinionated.
What a long way it is to Mr. Fitzjohn's to be sure, and the afternoon turning quite chilly—don't take all the rug, my dear, please!
Oh, don't apologise, Mr. Fitzjohn—quite light enough for me, I assure you. Thank you, I will sit down, we've been seeing pictures—good, bad, and indifferent—all the afternoon, so fatiguing, you know, so many ideas to grasp. I don't mean that that's the case with your pictures ... Yes, very nice, charming. Let me see, didn't you exhibit the large one last year? No? Ah! then it's my mistake, I seem to have seen it so often before—a favourite subject with Artists, I suppose. So difficult to hit on anything really original nowadays. But I daresay you despise all that sort of thing. Well, good-bye, I mustn't keep my coachman waiting any longer.
Perhaps, I was a little annoyed, my dear, never offering us a cup of tea or anything, after coming all that way, but I don't think I showed it, did I? Yes, I am rather tired, and I really think that if it wasn't that I can't bear disappointing people, I should turn back now. But we must just drop in on that poor little Mr. Haverstock, now we are so near. The poor man was so anxious that I should see his pictures—we needn't stay long.
There, Mr. Haverstock, you see I haven't forgotten! though we're rather late, and we shall have to drive back directly to dress—we're dining out this evening, you know. What a nice studio! small, of course, but then you don't want a large room, do you? What a quantity of pictures! How you must have worked! If you send in so many, one of them's sure to get in, isn't it? Still, I should have thought that if you had painted only one or two, and taken great pains with them, it might—oh, most of them are your friend's? and only these two yours? Well, no doubt you are quite right not to be too ambitious. Why, this is quite charming—really quite charming, isn't it, Eugenia? Oh, I quite understand it isn't yours, Mr. Haverstock. I suppose your friend has been painting much longer than you have? No? really! Younger, is he? but some people have a natural turn for it, haven't they? Have you had many visitors this afternoon? Ah, well, they will come some day, I daresay. Now I'm going to be very rude, and make a suggestion. Perhaps if you burnt one or two pastilles, or those Japanese joss-sticks, you know,—they're quite cheap—you'd get rid of some of the smell of the paint and the cigarettes—or is it pipes? Oh, I don't mind it, you know, but some do....
Poor dear fellow, I'm afraid he'll never get on. And what a pig-stye to paint in! Well, I'm glad I've done my duty, Eugenia. Mind you remember all the places we've been to. Home, please, Chandler.
ROBERT'S COMMISHUNS.
