'You, Mr. Stephenson,' she said, 'who are a true critic and understand work, tell me what you think of the picture.'
The great critic—he was not really a humbug; he was very fond of looking at pictures; only, you see, he was not an artist—advanced to the front, bent forward, considered a few moments, and then spoke.
'A dexterous piece of work—truly dexterous in the highest sense: full of observation intelligently and poetically rendered: careful: truthful: with intense feeling. I could hardly have believed that any English painter was capable of work in this genre.'
The people all gazed upon the canvas with rapt admiration: they murmured that it was wonderful and beautiful. Then Alec covered up the picture, and somebody began to play something.
'Alec,' said Mr. Jagenal, who seldom came to these gatherings, 'I congratulate you. Your picture is very good. And in a new style. When will you be content to settle down in the jog-trot that the British public love?'
'Let me change my subject sometimes. When I am tired of trees I will go back, perhaps, to the coast and seapieces.'
'Ah! But take care. There's a fellow coming along—— By the way, Alec, I have made a discovery lately.'
'What is it?'
'About those rubies. Why, man'—for Alec turned suddenly pale—'you remember that business still?'