Mowbray carried me with him. “Come off,” said he; “I long to hear Montenero descant on the merits of the dentition. Do you speak, for you can do it with a better face.” Mowbray seemed to be intent merely upon his own diversion; he must have seen and felt how reluctant I was: but, taking my arm, he dragged me on to Mr. Montenero, who was standing near a window, with the picture in his hand, examining it attentively. Mowbray pushed me on close behind Mr. Montenero--the light now falling on the picture, I saw it for the first time, and the sight struck me with such associated feelings of horror, that I started back, exclaiming, with vehement gestures, “I cannot bear it! I cannot bear that picture!” Mr. Montenero turned, and looked at me with surprise. “I beg pardon, sir,” said I; “but it made me absolutely--” “Sick,” said Mr. Montenero, opening the window, as I leaned back against the wall, and the eyes of all present were fixed upon me. Ashamed of the exaggerated expression of my feelings, I stood abashed. Mr. Montenero, with the greatest kindness of manner, and with friendly presence of mind, said he remembered well having felt actually sick at the sight of certain pictures. “For instance, my lord,” said he, addressing himself to Lord Mowbray, “the famous picture of the flaying the unjust magistrate I never could look at steadily.” I recovered myself--and squeezing Mr. Montenero’s hand to express my sense of his kind politeness, I exerted myself to talk and to look at the picture. Afraid of Mowbray’s ridicule, I never once turned my eyes towards him--I fancied that he was laughing behind me: I did him injustice; he was not laughing--he looked seriously concerned. He whispered to me, “Forgive me, my dear Harrington--I aimed at _mamma_--I did not mean to hurt you.” Before we quitted the subject, I expressed to Mr. Montenero my surprise at his having purchased, at an extraordinary price, a picture apparently of so little merit, and on such a disgusting subject. “Abuse the subject as much as you please,” interrupted Mowbray; “but as to the merit of the painting, have the grace, Harrington, to consider, that Mr. Montenero must be a better judge than you or I.” “You are too good a judge yourself, my lord,” replied Mr. Montenero, in a reserved tone, “not to see this picture to be what it really is, a very poor performance.” Then turning to me in a cordial manner, “Be assured, Mr. Harrington, that I am at least as clear-sighted, in every point of view, as you can possibly be, to its demerits.” “Then why did you purchase it?” was the question, which involuntarily recurred to Mowbray and to me; but we were both silent, and stood with our eyes fixed upon the picture. “Gentlemen, if you will do me the honour to dine with me to-morrow,” said Mr. Montenero, “you shall know the purpose for which I bought this picture.”