The S.P. (screwing up his eyes). H'm! Yes. Perhaps. Clever-ish. Suggestive.
The R.L. (shocked). Oh, do you think so? I don't see anything of that kind in it—at least, I don't think it can be intentional.
The S.P. The beauty of Art is to suggest, to give work for the imagination.
The R.L. (recovering herself). I know so exactly what you mean—just as one makes all sorts of things out of the patches of damp on an old ceiling?
The S.P. Hardly. I should define Damp as the product of Nature—not Art.
The R.L. Oh, yes; if you put it in that way, of course! I only meant it as an illustration—the two things are really as different as possible. (Changes the subject.) They don't seem to mind what coloured paper they use for Pastels, do they?
The S.P. (oracularly). It is—er—always advisable in Pastels to use a tone of paper to harmonise as nearly as possible with the particular tone you—er—want. Because, you see, as the colour doesn't always cover the whole of the paper, if the paper which shows through is different in tone, it—er—
The R.L. Won't match? I see. How clever! (She arrives at a highly eccentric composition, and ventures upon an independent opinion.) Now I can't say I care for that—there's so very little done to it, and what there is is so glaring and crude, don't you think? I call it stupid.
The S.P. I was just about to say that it is the cleverest thing in the Exhibition—from an artistic point of view. No special interest in it, but the scheme of colour very harmonious—and very decorative.
The R.L. Oh, isn't it? That's just the right word for it—it is so decorative! and I do like the scheme of colour. Yes, it's very clever. I quite feel that about it. (With a gush.) It is so nice looking at pictures with somebody who has exactly the same tastes as oneself. And I always was fond of pastilles!