But it was nearly impossible to make that gentleman feel that one was even trying to snub him. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied; ‘I know a lot of men, very intelligent men, who don’t know a single one of the points of a picture. But art has made vast strides of late years: there’s no denying that.’ Miss Sewell slowly and impressively turned her shoulder on Mr. Semple, and thenceforward ignored his existence. It was not till the little party reached Burlington House that Alec understood the reason why he had been asked to join the party. Semple monopolized Laura, and Alec was expected to look after Miss Sewell. The care of that young lady on such an occasion was no sinecure. She was full of enthusiasm, which was about one-tenth part real; and she found in nearly every picture some indication of genius. ‘What an admirable tone there is in that little bit!’ she would say. Alec was dumb. ‘Don’t you think the breadth of effect there is perfectly wonderful?’ she asked, stopping before a great, aimless, carelessly-painted canvas. ‘I’m afraid I--I don’t know what you mean,’ said Alec. ‘The breadth, the feeling of vastness, of superiority to--to--you understand?’ replied Miss Sewell, in a very intense tone. But Alec was staring at the picture. ‘I don’t know what a picture should be,’ said he, very deliberately; ‘but I know what a hillside _is_, and _that_ thing has no resemblance to it whatever.’ ‘Oh, we must educate you, Mr. Lindsay,’ said the girl, with a little laugh. ‘I don’t want to be educated!’ said Alec stoutly. ‘I think half the things here are coarse, stupid daubs, and half the rest are pretty, but senseless. They have no meaning. They don’t help you to love beauty or nature more--not one bit.’ ‘Pray, sir,’ said a caustic voice behind Alec, ‘did you ever try to paint a picture?’ An old man, with keen black eyes, deep-set under bushy gray eyebrows, was the speaker. ‘Never in my life,’ said Alec. ‘Then you don’t know how difficult it is to paint a good one.’ ‘I think it is wonderful that they are half as good as they are,’ returned Alec. The stranger stared, and the young man went on: ‘I think it is wonderful that a man should be able to make likenesses of mountains, and seas, and clouds. But as men have learned how to do it, I think those who can’t do it better than this,’ pointing at a picture as he spoke, ‘had better leave their work at home till they can make it more like nature. And at least they might choose beautiful or picturesque subjects, and not waste their time over tables and chairs, curtains and rugs, ladies’ dresses and knickknacks.’ The old man smiled grimly, and nodded once or twice as he turned away. ‘Do find out who that is,’ said Miss Sewell; ‘I feel certain he is somebody.’ Miss Sewell was right. It was Sir Theodore Carson, the greatest painter of the day; and Miss Sewell at once resolved to profit by her experience and abandon enthusiasm for depreciation. Meanwhile Semple had been asking his companion: