They walked about for five minutes and looked at the aspirations. Ancram remembered Rhoda Daye’s hard little sayings on the opening day, and reflected that some women could laugh with a difference. Mrs. Church did it with greatest freedom, he noticed, at the prize pictures. For the others she had compunction, and she regarded the “Sunset View of Kinchinjunga” with a smile that she plainly atoned for by an inward tear. “Don’t!” she said, looking round the walls, as he invested that peak with the character of a strawberry ice. “It means all the bloom of their lives, poor things. At all events it’s ideality, it isn’t——” “Pig-sticking!” “Yes,” she said softly. “If I knew what in the world to do with it, I would buy that ‘Kinchin.’ But its ultimate disposal does present difficulties.” “I don’t think you would have any right to do that, you know. You couldn’t be so dishonest with the artist. Who would sell the work of his hand to be burned!” He was successful in provoking her appreciation. “You are quite right,” she said. “The patronage of my pity! You always see!” “I _have_ bought a picture,” Ancram went on, “by a fellow named Martin, who seems to have sent it out from England. It’s nothing great, but I thought it was a pity to let it go back. That narrow one, nearest to the corner.” “It is good enough to escape getting a prize,” she laughed. “Yes, I like it rather—a good deal—very much indeed. I wish I were a critic and could tell you why. It will be a pleasure to you; it is so green and cool and still.” Mr. Ancram’s purchase was of the type that is growing common enough at the May exhibitions—a bit of English landscape on a dull day towards evening, fields and a bank with trees on it, a pool with water-weeds in it, the sky crowding down behind and standing out in front in the quiet water. Perhaps it lacked imagination—there was no young woman leaning out of the canoe to gather water-lilies—but it had been painted with a good deal of knowledge. Mr. James Springgrove at the moment was talking about it to another gentleman. Mr. Springgrove was one of Calcutta’s humourists. He was also a member of the Board of Revenue; and for these reasons, combined with his subscription, it was originally presumed that Mr. Springgrove understood Art. People generally thought he did, because he was a Director and a member of the Hanging Committee, but this was a mistake. Mr. Springgrove brought his head as nearly as possible into a line with the other gentleman’s head, from which had issued, in weak commendation, the statement that No. 223 reminded it of home. [Illustration: There was a moment’s pause.] “If you asked what it reminded _me_ of,” said Mr. Springgrove, clapping the other on the back, “I should say verdigris, sir—verdigris.” Mrs. Church and the Honourable Mr. Lewis Ancram looked into each other’s eyes and smiled as long as there was any excuse for smiling.