up
again. Rather than do nothing, I have opened my ink-bottle, and I mean
to go on with my journal. Now I think of it, it seems likely that the
exhibition of works of art may have upset me.

I found a dreadfully large number of pictures, matched by a dreadfully
large number of people to look at them. It is not possible for me to
write about what I saw: there was too much of it. Besides, the show
disappointed me. I would rather write about a disagreement (oh, dear,
another dispute!) I had with Mrs. Staveley. The cause of it was a famous
artist; not himself, but his works. He exhibited four pictures--what
they call figure subjects. Mrs. Staveley had a pencil. At every one of
the great man's four pictures, she made a big mark of admiration on her
catalogue. At the fourth one, she spoke to me: "Perfectly beautiful,
Eunice, isn't it?"

I said I didn't know. She said: "You strange girl, what do you mean by
that?"

It would have been rude not to have given the best answer I could find.
I said: "I never saw the flesh of any person's face like the flesh in
the faces which that man paints. He reminds me of wax-work. Why does he
paint the same waxy flesh in all four of his pictures? I don't see the
same colored flesh in all the faces about us." Mrs. Staveley held up her
hand, by way of stopping me. She said: "Don't speak so loud, Eunice; you
are only exposing your own ignorance."

A voice behind us joined in. The voice said: "Excuse me, Mrs. Staveley,
if I expose _my_ ignorance. I entirely agree with the young lady."

I felt grateful to the person who took my part, just when I was at a
loss what to say for myself, and I looked round. The person was a young
gentleman.

He wore a beautiful blue frock-coat, buttoned up. I like a frock-coat
to be buttoned up. He had light-colored trousers and gray gloves and a
pretty cane. I like light-colored trousers and gray gloves and a pretty
cane. What color his eyes were is more than I can say; I only know they
made me hot when they looked at me. Not that I mind being made hot; it
is surely better than being made cold. He and Mrs. Staveley shook hands.

They seemed to be old friends. I wished I had been an old friend--not
for any bad reason, I hope. I only wanted to shake hands, too. What Mrs.
Staveley said to him escaped me, somehow. I think the picture escaped
me also; I don't remember noticing anything except the young gentleman,
especially when he took off his hat to me. He looked a