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(who knows all about it).—This Verboeckhoven is simply atrocious!

(who wishes he did know all about it).—It does seem rather-er-well, really, not quite up to the mark, you know.

.—Why, it is vile, my dear fellow; positively vile. The veriest tyro in art ought to see that!

.—Oh, yes, indeed!

. —Now, this little canvas is not so bad!

.—So very natural, you know.

(patronizingly).—Natural, my dear boy, but not nature.

.—Oh, possibly, possibly!

.—You never really saw grass and sky look like that grass and sky.

.—Now that you speak of it, I am not sure that I have, you know.

.—Of course you haven't; the picture has delicacy and finish, but fidelity to nature—Bah!

.—I quite agree with you. This is a rather odd bit.

.—Very odd! the lights, though, are managed very well—yes, really, very well.

.—It quite takes my fancy.

.—Oh, it is a very faulty canvas otherwise—full of glaring errors.

.—Oh, here is a Gérôme!

.—Yes, not at his best; a fairish composition only. I tell you, my dear boy, the majority of paintings are overrated—there is nothing in them.

.—What's this?—"After the Ball!" She looks as if she were sorry she went.

(her escort).—Oh, no; she's sorry she came home so soon.

.—What an uncomfortable attitude—and she's rumpling her dress awfully!

.—Oh, well, she doesn't mind that, you know; it's the end of the season.

.—Here's "A Misty Morning in Rome!"

.—I call that a regular London fog.

.—Yes, indeed! Do let us go on; it will take the curl out of my feathers.

(a young woman with catalogue and magnifying glass "doing" the collection).—Look at the detail of that woman's dress. Isn't it wonderful?

.—Wonderful!

(after a few moments' absorbing contemplation).—Kæemmerer paints deliciously! .—Exquisitely!

.—Will you look at this perspective—the depth of it?—why, it is superb!

.—Oh, isn't it?

.—Marvelous! marvelous!! The picture as a whole, though, lacks sentiment.

.—Yes, I think so.

(pettishly).—Look at those stupid people standing so close to that Fortuny!

.—Such ignorance!

.—Why, it's a perfect daub near by!

.—Of course!

.—Oh, here's another Bierstadt!

.—Oh, yes; how very fine!

.—Ye-es; but his pictures are so very similar—all painted from the same recipe.

.—That may be so.

(before a Detaille).—This is quite pretty, Mabel; a sort of battle-scene, isn't it?

(her daughter).—It seems to be, Mama.

.—Who did it?

(reading name on frame).—It's some unpronounceable name—French, I think, Mama.

.—Oh, never mind, my dear. I really don't care. I don't like so many figures in a picture, anyhow; it's too confusing.

(who manufactures pictures by the dozen for dealers).—Good gracious, man; look at those flesh tints!

(who does the same).—Frightful—mixed with putty, I should say!

.—Horrible, horrible! I can't see how a painter can let such work leave his easel.

.—Nor I. But the so-called great artist is not apt to be the conscientious one.

.—True, indeed! This Troyon here lacks detail.

.—Oh, yes—and breadth!

.—Do look at the gaping crowd before that huge canvas over there!

.—I see. That's what discourages true art—the utter want of discrimination in the public.

.—Oh, give it size and color and it is satisfied.

.—Look at this landscape—the critics laud it to the skies.

.—Where it ought to be—it is a mass of faults.

.—A wretched composition throughout.

.—And here—this outrageous chaos of color.

.—My dear fellow, that was intended to hang in an unlighted gallery.

.—Altogether a miserable collection.

.—Yes—let's go; why didn't the fellow, with his money, buy something worth showing?