Having made a ridiculously generous donation to the support of this league at the request of a certain lovely lady, Bulstrode followed his generosity by a personal effort, and with not much opposition on his part permitted himself to be taken to the exhibition. He was not, in the ultra sense of the word, a _connaisseur_, but he thought he knew a horror when he saw it! So he said, and on this afternoon his eyes ached and his offended taste cried out before he had patiently travelled half-way down the line of canvases. "My dear lady," he confided _sotto voce_ to his friend, "I feel more inclined to establish a fund for sending all these young women back to the _prairies_, if that's where they come from, than to aid in this slaughter of public time and taste. _Why_ don't they stay at home--and marry?" "That's a vulgar and limited point of view to take," his friend reproached him. "Don't you acknowledge that a woman has many careers instead of one? _You_ seem to be thoroughly enjoying your liberty! What if I should ask you why _you_ don't stay at home, and marry?" Bulstrode looked at his guide comprehensively and smiled gently. His response was irrelevant. "Look at this picture! It's too dreadful for words." "Hush, you're not a judge. Here and there there is evidence of great talent." They had drawn up before a portrait, and poor Bulstrode caught his breath with a groan: "It's too awful! It's crime to encourage it." Mrs. Falconer tried to lead him on. "Well, this _is_ an unfortunate place to stop," she confessed. "That portrait represents more tragedy than you can see." "It couldn't," murmured Bulstrode. "The poor girl who did it has struggled on here for two years, living sometimes on a franc a day. Just fancy! She has been trying to get orders so that she can stay on and study. Poor thing! The people who are interested say that she's been near to desperation. She is awfully proud, and won't take any assistance but orders. You can imagine _they're_ not besieging her! She has come to her last cent, I believe, and has to go home to Idaho." "Let her go, my dear friend." Bulstrode was earnest. "It's the best thing she could possibly do!" His companion put her hand on his arm. "Please be quiet," she implored. "There she is, standing over by the door. That rather pretty girl with the disorderly blonde hair." Bulstrode looked up--saw her--looked again, and exclaimed: "Is _that_ the girl? Do you know her? Present me, will you?" "Nonsense." She detained him. "How you go from hot to cold! _Why_ should you want to meet her, pray?" "Oh," he evaded, "it's a curious study. I want to talk to her about art, and if you don't present me I shall speak to her without an introduction."