'By Jove! It's a Belgian picture!' cried the Associate. And, indeed, you may see hundreds of pictures exactly in this style in the Brussels galleries, where the artists are never tired of painting the flat country and the trees, at every season and under every light.
'Precisely,' said the painter. 'That is the remark which I anticipated. Let us call it—if you like—a Belgian picture. The subject is English: the treatment, perhaps, Belgian. For my part, I am not too proud to learn something from the Belgians.'
The Associate touched the man nearest him—an artist, not yet an Associate—by the arm.
'Ghosts!' he murmured. 'Spooks and ghosts!'
'Spectres!' replied the other. 'Phantoms and bogies!'
'A Haunted Studio!' said the Associate. 'My knees totter! My hair stands on end!'
'I tremble—I have goose-flesh!' replied his friend.
'Let us—let us run to the Society of Psychical Research!' whispered the Associate.
'Let us swiftly run!' said the other.
They fled, swiftly and softly. Only Mrs. Feilding observed their flight. She also gathered from their looks the subject of their talk. And she resolved that she would not, henceforth, encourage artists at her Sunday evenings. She turned to Dick Stephenson.