LITMIR.BIZ

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on earth told you that?” I began, but was cut short.

      “I confess,” broke in Miss Wallaby, with frosty distinctness of tone and enunciation, “that the assumption upon which the incident just related is based – the assumption that the la – woman referred to would probably misconduct herself in a place of public resort – seems to me startlingly characteristic of the country of which it is narrated. It has been truly said that the most valuable test of a country’s actual, as distinct from its assumed, worth, is the respect it pays to its women. Both at Cheltenham and at Newnham the idea is steadily inculcated – I might say insisted upon as of paramount importance – that the nation’s real civilisation rests upon the measure, not alone of chivalrous deference, but of esteem and confidence which my sex, by its devotion to duty, and its intellectual sympathy with broad aims and lofty purposes, is able to inspire and command.”

      “But I assure you,” I protested feebly, “the story I told was a joke.”

      “There are some subjects,” interposed Lady Willoughby Wallaby, the fixed smile lighting up with an angry, winter-sunset glow her inflamed countenance – “there are some subjects on which it is best not to joke.” As she spoke she wagged a mitted thumb at her hostess, and on the instant the ladies rose. Mr Hump hastened round to hold the door open as they filed out, their heads high in air, their skirts rustling indignantly over the threshold. Then he followed them, closing the door with decision behind him.

      “Gad, Albert,” said Uncle Dudley, reaching over for the port, “I don’t wonder that the pick of our young fellows go in for marrying American girls.”

      “Pass it along!” remarked the father of Mrs Albert’s three daughters, in a voice of confirmed dejection.

      Annotating Sundry Points of Contact found to exist between the Lady and Contemporary Art

      Scene. —Just inside the door of a studio.

      Time. —Last Sunday in March, 5 p.m.

      1st Citizeness. O, thank you so much!

      2nd do. So good of you to come!

      1st do. I so dote upon art!

      2nd do. So kind of you to say so!

      1st do. Thank you so much for asking us!

      2nd do. Delighted, I’m sure! Thank you for coming!

      1st Citizeness. Not at all! Thank you for – for thanking me for – Well —good-bye. (Exit – with family group.)

      Husband of 2nd Citizeness (with gloom). And who might those thankful bounders be?

      2nd Citizeness (wearily). O, don’t ask me! I don’t know! From Addison Road way, I should think.

      1st Citizeness (outside). Well! If that thing gets into the Academy!

      Family Group. Did you notice the ridiculous way her hair was done? Did you ever taste such tea in your life? How yellow Mrs. General Wragg is getting to look in the daylight. Yes – there’s our four-wheeler. (Exeunt omnes.)

      The above is not intended for presentation upon any stage – not even that of the Independent Theatre. It has been cast into the dramatic mould merely for convenience’ sake. It embodies what I chiefly remember about Picture Sunday.

      It has come to be my annual duty – a peculiarly hardy, not to say temerarious, annual – to convoy Mrs Albert Grundy and her party about sections of Chelsea and Brompton on the earlier of the two Show Sabbaths. I drifted into this function through having once shared an attic with a young painter, whose colleagues used to come to borrow florins of him whenever one of his pictures disappeared from any shop window, and so incidentally formed my acquaintance. My claim nowadays upon their recollection is really very slight. I just know them well enough to manage the last Sunday in March: even that might be awkward if they were not such good-natured fellows.

      But it would be difficult to persuade Mrs Albert of this. That good lady is wont, when the playfully benignant mood is upon her, to describe me as her connecting link with Bohemia. She probably would be puzzled to explain her meaning; I certainly should. But if she were provided with affidavits setting forth the whole truth – viz., that my entire income is derived from an inherited part-interest in an artificial-ice machine; that there are two clergymen on the committee of my only club; that I am free from debt; and that I play duets on the piano with my sister – still would she cling to the belief that I am a young man with an extremely gay, rakish side, who could make thrilling revelations of Bohemia if I would. Of course, I am never questioned on the subject; but I can see that it is a point upon which the faith of Fernbank is firmly grounded. Often Mrs Albert’s conversation cuts figure-eights on very thin ice when we are alone, as if just to show me that she knows. More than once I have discovered Ermyntrude looking furtively at me, as the wistful shepherd-boy on the plains of Dura might have gazed at the distant haze overhanging bold, unspeakable Babylon. I rarely visit the house but Uncle Dudley winks at me. However, nothing is ever asked me about the dreadful things with which they suppose me to be upon intimate terms.

      It seemed for a long time, on Sunday, as if an easy escape had been arranged for me by Providence. At two o’clock, the hour appointed for our crusade, a heavy fog overhung everything. Looking out from the drawing-room windows, only the very nearest of the neatly trimmed firs on the lawn were to be distinguished. The street beyond was utter blackness.

      At three o’clock the ladies took off their bonnets. It was really too bad. Uncle Dudley, strolling in from his nap in the library, suggested that with a lantern we might visit some of the nearer studios: “not necessarily for publication, but as a guarantee of good faith.” Mrs Albert turned a look of tearful vexation upon him, before which he fled.

      “There’s this consolation,” she remarked presently, holding me with an unwavering eye: “if we are to be defrauded out of our expedition to-day, that will furnish all the more reason why you should take us next Sunday —the Sunday. You have often talked of having us see the Academicians at home – but we’ve never been.”

      “I remember that there has been talk about it,” I said; “but hardly that the talk was mine. Truth is, I don’t know a single Academician, even by sight.”

      It was clear that they did not believe me. Mrs Albert continued: “Lady Wallaby expressed surprise, only last evening, that we should consent to go about among the outsiders. She and her daughter never do.”

      “Outsiders!” I was tempted into saying. “Why, they can paint the head off the Academy!”

      Miss Timby-Hucks simpered outright. “You do say such droll things!” she remarked, somewhat obscurely. “Mamma always declares that you remind her of the Sydney Bulletin.”

      “Whom do you take to the Academy Show Sunday? – or perhaps I oughtn’t to ask,” came from Ermyntrude.

      “No, we have no right to inquire,” said Mrs Albert; and I turned to the window and the enshrouded lawn once more.

      All at once the fog lifted. The bonnets were produced again. Nearly three hours of daylight remained to us. Tidings that the horse was too lame to be taken out only staggered Mrs Albert for the briefest fraction of time. There were still four-wheelers in Gilead. Besides, if the driver happened to be sober, he would know the streets so much better than their stupid coachman. This would be of advantage, because time was so limited. We should have to just run in, say “How-d’ye-do,” take a flying look round, and scamper out again, Mrs Albert said. By firmly adhering to this rule, she estimated that we might do sixteen or seventeen studios.

      Heaven alone knows how many we did “do.” Nor have I any clear recollections of what we saw. A confused vision remains to me of long hall-ways lined with frames and packing-cases; half-an-acre, more or less, of painted canvas, out of which only here and there a pair of bright eyes, a glowing field of poppies, or the sheen from a satin gown, fixed itself disconnectedly on the memory; hordes and hordes of tall young women helping themselves to tea and cakes; and always the pathetic figure of the artist’s wife, or sister, tired to very death, standing by the door

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