She was taken aback and was prepared to be chilly and non-committal. She looked at his face and the nearer view was a pleasing one. He was very fair, very good-looking and had the bluest eyes she had ever seen in a man. He was also unshaven and his collar was not clean, but he was well dressed enough and his tone was wholly Oxford--and Balliol at that. “I think it is rather weird,” she said. “So do I,” he nodded vigorously. “I think it is--‘weird’ is the word. As a work of art how does it strike you?” She hesitated. She had a full range of studio jargon which she had acquired in the course of her after-education and could speak glibly on atmosphere, tone and light. She knew that it was possible to refer to a still-life study of a bunch of bananas as being “full of movement” without being guilty of an absurdity. In fact, she knew enough about art to have occupied a position on any average newspaper as a critic. “As a work of art,” she said, “it is original and a little eccentric.” “Frankly?” he demanded fiercely. All the time he spoke he was glaring at the picture and had not turned his head toward her. “Frankly,” she replied, “I think these are monstrosities.” He nodded again. “I agree with you,” he said, “and I know better than anybody else how monstrous they are--I painted ’em!” Moya gasped. “I am awfully sorry,” she began. “I am sorry, too--that I painted them,” he replied. “I am not sorry that I exhibited them, because all my friends told me that they were wonderful and naturally I get some satisfaction from proving that my friends are mentally deficient.” He turned round and looked at her and was in turn surprised. “Hello,” he said, staring at her with his blue eyes wide open, “I thought you were much older.” She laughed. “The fact is I didn’t look at you,” he confessed; “how can anybody look at anything with these beastly things staring one in the face--Hi! Emma!” Fortunately the programme girl was looking his way and realised that he was speaking to her. “Your name is Emma, I suppose.” “No, sir,” said the girl impressively, “my name is Evangeline.” He turned to the girl. “Here is an Evangeline whom I thought was an Emma; and here are my Emmas that I thought were Evangelines,” he said despairingly. “What made you come to this exhibition?” “I saw a criticism of the pictures in yesterday’s papers.” “In the _Megaphone_,” he said accusingly. “Yes--it was a very flattering criticism, I thought,” said the girl. He nodded. “I wrote it myself,” he said without shame. He turned to the programme girl. “Tell your master to shut up the gallery, have the pictures packed away and sent home.” “But,” said Moya in alarm, “I hope my stupid views won’t influence you.”