He nodded toward his parents and shook his head mysteriously. Wynne was not entirely easy with his conscience at having accepted the post of guide, and determined to justify himself by a great liberality of artistic expression. He therefore began to talk with exceeding rapidity the moment they entered the first gallery. “This collection is more or less mediocre, although one or two examples are worthy of attention. This Cupid and Psyche, for instance, may at first strike you as insipid, but it presents interesting features. You observe how there is a far greater similarity between the sexes than we find in nature. It is almost as though, by combining the two, the artist sought to arrive at the ideal human form.” “Dare say he did,” admitted the father, rather uncomfortably, while the mother looked with eyes that saw nothing. Blotchy Vincent, on the other hand, pricked up his ears at the word “sex.” “One might sum up this school by saying they were inspired by an hermaphroditic tendency.” “M’yes. Well, I don’t think we need inquire into that. It’s—hardly—er—” “The same spirit is prevalent in modern French sculpture.” “I think we will have a look at something else.” “That’s a nice picture,” said Mrs. Johns—for Johns was the name of the family. “Very nice, I call that—quiet!” She directed their attention toward a large canvas depicting a lady sitting upon a couch with her legs resting straightly on its flat surface. “Ah, that _is_ a nice picture,” agreed Mr. Johns. Vincent, however, lingered before Cupid and Psyche. It did not compare with sundry picture postcards he had seen, but it held greater attractions than the portrait of Madame Récamier. “I consider the colour is disappointing,” observed Wynne—“disappointing and improbable. When one comes to consider that Madame Récamier held in her day the most popular Salon in Paris, and reflects that to do so she must inevitably have been demimondaine of the demimondaine, one is justified in expecting an added brilliance to the cheeks and an added scarlet to the lips.” Hereupon Mr. Johns favoured Wynne with a warning look, which he was pleased to ignore. “This particular canvas is illustrative of what somebody—I think Samuel Butler—said, that a portrait is never so much of the sitter as of the artist. Shall we take some of the older masters next?” He led the way to an inner gallery, the Johns family trooping behind him. As they passed through the arched doorway Mr. and Mrs. Johns exchanged glances as though to say: “I think we have made a great mistake introducing this young man into our God-fearing midst!” Before the canvases of the Old Masters Wynne expanded his views with great liberality. Correggio and Botticelli were favoured with a kindly mention, Rembrandt was patted on the back, and Raphael severely criticized. An ill-advised appreciation of a canvas by Jordeans brought upon Mr. Johns a vigorous attack: