the
east wind outside were not mocking the efforts of the May sun, and others
still wrapped in furs, which showed a juster sense of the caprices of the
English climate. Among them one might distinguish the usual shades and
species: the familiar country cousin, gathering material for the
over-awing of such of her neighbours as were unable to dip themselves
every year in the stream of London; the women folk of the artist world,
presenting greater varieties of type than the women of any other class
can boast; and lastly, a sprinkling of the women of what calls itself
'London Society,' as well dressed, as well mannered, and as well provided
with acquaintance as is the custom of their kind.

In one of the farther rooms, more scantily peopled as yet than the rest,
a tall thin man was strolling listlessly from picture to picture, making
every now and then hasty references to his catalogue, but in general
eyeing all he saw with the look of one in whom familiarity with the sight
before him had bred weariness, if not contempt. He was a handsome man,
with a broad brow and a pleasant gentleness of expression. The eyes were
fine and thoughtful, and there was a combination of intellectual force
with great delicacy of line in the contour of the head and face which was
particularly attractive, especially to women of the more cultivated and
impressionable sort. His thin grayish hair was rather long--not of that
pronounced length which inevitably challenges the decision of the
bystander as to whether the wearer be fool or poet, but still long enough
to fall a little carelessly round the head and so take off from the
spruce conventional effect of the owner's irreproachable dress and
general London air.

Mr. Eustace Kendal--to give the person we have been describing his
name--was not apparently in a good temper with his surroundings. He was
standing with a dissatisfied expression before a Venetian scene drawn by
a brilliant member of a group of English artists settled on foreign soil
and trained in foreign methods.

'Not so good as last year,' he was remarking to himself. 'Vulgar drawing,
vulgar composition, hasty work everywhere. It is success spoils all these
men--success and the amount of money there is going. The man who painted
this didn't get any pleasure out of it. But it's the same all round. It
is money and luxury and the struggle to live which are driving us all on
and killing the artist's natural joy in his work. And presently