Or the more general pathos may be absent. The weak pathetic line, and silly meaningless forms, the unreal colour, are the object of a certain emotion: something that I can only describe as a technical pity; a professional pathos. The best is made of an unfortunate limitation. This Naif may even become perfectly bumptious and self-satisfied in course of time, everything turning out, in the practical sphere, for the best: by the same process that produces the infantile swank of the deformed. The Primitive Naif may evolve rather in the same way as the Child-Naif, or he may not. It may be a refuge of incompetence. Or it may be a romantic mode, teutonic in character. Then the Child-Naif and the Primitive Naif sometimes come together in the same artist. There is no such thing as the _born Primitive_. There is the _Primitive_ in point of view of historical date, the product of a period. And there is the _Primitive voulu_, who is simply a pasticheur and stylist, and invariably a sentimentalist, when not a rogue. When he is not specially an _Italian_ or _Flemish Primitive_, but just a _Primitive_ (whatever period he flits into _always_ a Primitive), he is on the same errand and has the same physiognomy as the Period-taster, or any other form of dilettante or of pasticheur. The Primitive voulu acrobatically adapts himself to a mentality of a different stage of social development: the pasticheur merely, en touriste, visits different times and places, without necessarily so much a readjustment of his mind as of his hand. As to the Child proper. Of course the success of “The Young Visiters” is partly due to its domestic appeal, partly due to its character of a sentimental curiosity. The distillation of Middle-class snobbery, also, presented in this pure and objectionable form, is sure to “attract a wide public.” Pamela Bianca, whose drawings are to be found in a publication called the _Owl_, in _Vogue_, and so forth, is like Daisy Ashford at least in one point: that _she is not a child_. She may be nine years old, and “The Young Visiters” may have been written by a child of two. But they both have every sad relaxed quality of the average adult mind. They are as extinct as that. Pamela Bianca’s “libido” has naively devoured the Douanier’s Fête National. But that is the nearest she has come to naiveté. Otherwise she imitates Beardsley or Botticelli, or some fellow-child, with as sophisticated a competence as any South Kensington student. She is very exactly the æsthetic peer of the professional painters who run the _Owl_. The growth of the mind and of the body is so often not parallel, some people’s “mature” lives so long, others almost non-existent, that it is difficult to know where you are dealing with the art product of the child, or the child-like art of the adult.