usly under her long dark lashes.

"You catch the idea?" she asked.

"No," I said, "not yet."

"Well, as soon as we arrived Papa took the catalogue and looked up all
the Sargents--in the index part, you know, and wrote the numbers on his
cuff and then we began to hunt them down.

"The first one was a 'still life.' Papa viewed it in some perplexity.
'Ah,' he said at length, 'just as I thought. I have been anticipating
this for some time.' He adjusted his spectacles. 'The tendency of modern
Art--that is to say the best Art--is towards a return to more classic
forms. Sargent, as might be expected, leads the way; but he infuses the
subject with his own special genius. I regard this as a very line
example--very fine, indeed. The vitality of the half salmon is
positively amazing.'

"I led him gently away, and presently we stood before the portrait of a
City gentleman--the kind that is very fond of turtle soup. Papa raved
over it.

"'Here, again,' he pointed out, 'see the loving care bestowed on each
link in the watch-chain. What a reproof to the slovenly slap-dash
methods of the Impressionists.'

"I gazed rapturously into his face and urged him onward. Things went
from bad to worse, but it was really 'The Lowing Herd' that put the lid
on it. A more lamentable company of cows you could hardly imagine. Even
Papa was baffled for the moment; but after checking the number on the
picture with the number on his cuff he pulled himself together.

"'Wonderful grouping,' he said; 'eminently Sargentesque;' and his voice
seemed to challenge all within earshot to name another artist who could
have produced the work.

"'Well, now,' he concluded, 'I think that is the last of them, and the
best thing we can do is to go home. It would be a pity to spoil the
afternoon by looking at any of the lesser lights.'

"I hesitated. 'Don't you think,' I suggested, 'it would be nice just to
look at the Sargents before we go?'

"For some moments Papa was speechless.

"'The Sargents!' he exclaimed at length. 'Well, of all the----Here I
devote a solid half-hour to teaching you something about Art and your
mind is woolgathering the whole time. What on earth were you thinking
about?'

"'I was thinking about the years that are gone,' I said.

"'The years that are gone?'

"'Yes, and I'm afraid it's entirely my fault, because I brought it.'

"Papa gasped.

"'What on earth is the child talking about?'

"'The catalogue,' I said; 'it's some ot