There were many other reasons why we did not have a good show. One was the number of jurymen who had favorite pupils and must have a place for their work. Most of these we succeeded in eliminating, but they crept in in spite of us. I remember one man telling us of a beautiful girl, one of the capital F’s of the F. F. V.’s of Virginia (whose family had been stricken with poverty by the Civil War), now supporting her invalid mother by her art—not a word about the merit of the work. We had rejected a portrait by the young lady, but took it back, not on account of the story, but because it was so offensive to see this particular juryman weep about it. Then there were the indignant American citizens who appealed to the ambassador over our decisions. The United States government had given us the final power of acceptance or refusal, but overrode us in a number of cases. A noted American sculptor, whose position socially was unimpeachable, but whose work was fundamentally “rotten,” had gone so far as to have his several groups of large statuary placed where he thought they should eventually rest, and there was consternation when we refused them. A member of the jury tackled Alexander Harrison and myself on the subject one night with the argument that we were in duty bound to recognize the work of a man so highly placed socially. Harrison replied: “You may think that in talking to Simmons and me you are speaking to two gentlemen with social position. But you are not; you are only talking to two Puritans. We do not think it is right.” But the American government stepped in and the sculpture was duly accepted. In another case the ambassador came to us with a pathetic appeal for protection, asking us to reconsider our opinion of a portrait we had rejected. “The lady who painted it sleeps on my doormat,” he said, “and she’s got to be removed.” With laughter we took it back. Once in Philadelphia I was one of a committee that was to decide a competition for the decoration of one of the public buildings. It was a great plum, for in addition to the actual payment for the work, the winner was to get a prize of two thousand dollars for his proposition. All through our meeting I felt a strange and subtle influence at work, although I must confess I was not approached or asked to use my vote in any way for any contestant. Edwin Abbey had sent a sketch, very good, but the charming part of it had been done by a young architect in London and it was very doubtful that it would keep its beauty if carried out in a large design. The majority decided for a younger painter, and the award was given to him. Right after the decision there was a large reception at the home of George W. Elkins, who, if I mistake not, had given the prize. I shall never forget his look of surprise and then chagrin as we filed in and announced our decision. “Why,” he said, “I thought it had been all arranged that Abbey was to have it.”