“Don’t get up, Colonel,” said Mrs. Sylvester; “we want to sit here for a little and hear what people say about Richard’s picture.  They make such amusing remarks sometimes!  Not always complimentary; but, then, they often don’t know anything about art.”

“Yes,” said Eve, seating herself, with a delicate consideration for the new dress, which the occasion had demanded, between the Colonel and her mother; “we heard someone say that the flesh in that big Roman picture with the temple, you know—­I can’t pronounce the name—­was like cotton wool—­pink cotton wool!  Oh, and that the girl in black, with the yellow fan, whose portrait is in the big room, must be at least eight feet high!”

“Now, how the dickens could he tell that!” interposed the Colonel.

“Oh, he was talking very learnedly, about heads and things.  How provoking of that old gentleman in the gold spectacles!  Standing just in front of Dick’s picture with his back to it.  He looks just exactly like a millionaire, and he won’t look, and he’s preventing other people from looking!  Do turn him round, uncle, or move him on, or something!”

“Do you see that man there?” whispered Mrs. Sylvester presently, “the tall man with the sandy hair and beard?  I think he’s a painter.  He said just now that Richard’s picture was amazingly good, and that he thought he knew where he got the idea from.”

“Why, of course,” said the Colonel carelessly; “Dick got the idea from that beggar what’s-his-name’s dock—­and a thundering good idea too!  I wonder what time they close?  Perhaps——­”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Sylvester, buttoning her gloves, “I suppose we had better go.”

The room was nearly empty when McAllister passed before his friend’s picture again, after a satisfactory interview with a gentleman from Bond Street on the subject of one of his own.  McAllister, whose criticism Mrs. Sylvester had overheard and reported, had recently been elected Associate, owing the honour, according to some malicious people, more to his nationality than to his merit as a painter of cattle and landscapes.  The Outcry, indeed, with reference to this promotion, and the continued neglect of older artists of greater public repute, had suggested, with its usual impertinence, that the motto of Lasciate ogni speranza, which was reported in certain circles to be almost visibly inscribed over the door of the Academicians’ Committee-room, should be supplemented by the legend, “No English need apply.”

“It’s good,” he said reflectively, as he stopped in front of the picture, with something like a chuckle on his lips, and a twinkle in his shrewd, gray eyes.  “More than good.  You can see the clever French trick in every line of it, and they’ll call it one of the pictures of the year.  So it is, though there are dozens in the vaults downstairs worth two of it.  But I thought this was Oswyn’s subject?  He was always talking about it.  Well, I should like to see what he would have made of it!”