Here men, for their part, who would never otherwise rise beyond the phenomenal to the ideal, learned what was the Perfect Man--the Man of woman's imagination. Having learned, he might go away and try to resemble him. Women who could not feel, unhappily, the full sense of the beautiful, might learn from these models into what kind of man they should shape their husbands. 'The drawing of this picture,' said the Professor aloud, before a picture round which were gathered a throng of worshippers--for it was painted by a Royal Academician of great repute--'is inaccurate. Did one ever see a man with such shoulders, and yet with such a waist and such a hand? As for the colouring, it is as false as it is conventional; and look at the peach-like cheek and the feeble chin! It is the flesh of a weakly baby, not of a grown man and an athlete.' There were murmurs of dissent, but no one ventured to dispute the Professor's opinion; and indeed most of the bystanders had already recognised Lord Chester, and were staring at the hero of so much talk. 'He is better-looking,' he overheard one schoolgirl whispering to another, 'than the fellow on the canvas, isn't he?' The 'fellow on the canvas' was, in fact, the Ideal Man. He was meant by the artist to represent the noblest, tallest, strongest, straightest, and most dexterous of men. He carried a cricket-bat. It would have been foolish to figure him with book, pencil, or paper. Art, literature, science, politics, all belonged to the other sex. Only his strength was left to man, and that was to be expended by the orders of the superior sex, who were quite competent to exercise the functions for which they were born--namely, to think for the world. Of course, all the artists were women. Once there was a man who, assuming a female name, actually got a picture exhibited in the Academy. He was a self-taught man it was afterwards discovered; he had never been in a studio; he had never seen a Royal Academy. He painted an Old Man from nature. There was a faithful ruggedness about his work which made artists scoff, and yet brought tears to the eyes of country girls who knew no better. When the trick was discovered, the picture was taken down and burnt, and the wretched man--who was discovered in a little country cottage, painting two or three more in the same style--went mad, and was locked up for the rest of his days. Presently Lord Chester grew tired of the pictures and of the staring crowd. 'I have seen enough, Professor, if you have. They are all exactly like those of last year--the gladiators, and the runners, and all. Are we always to go on producing the same pictures?' 'I suppose so,' she replied. 'They say that the highest point of art has been reached. It would be a change if we were only to deteriorate for a few years. Meanwhile, one is reminded of the mole, who was asked why he did not invent another form of architecture.' 'What did she reply?'