But see!  What has come over our earnest group?  Those who compose it are all quite changed.  They look as happy as can be, all beaming with smiles, their backs to the neighbouring walls.  Friends, it seems, have greeted them.  How they all bubble on, all about the outside world!  But goodness!  Now what is the matter?  Suddenly one of the newcomers is struck by a startled look.  She sees, that is it, one of the pictures.  In an arrested voice she says:  “Oh, isn’t that perfectly lovely!” At once the happy light fades from the faces of all.  An awed hush falls upon them as stiffly they turn their heads in the direction of her view.  “Charming!” one of the young men breathes, staring intently at the painting which has come upon them.  That it is awkward for everybody is plain.  But, happily, there is much rebound to youth.  One of the young ladies, at length, shakes herself free from the pall upon her spirits; the mesmeric spell is broken; and presently all are chatting again, gaily oblivious to Art.

By the way, there is the proprietor of the gallery, just before the three Renoir pastels.  Is there anything about art exhibitions that more enlists the imagination than the study of the “dealers” themselves?  The gentlemen who preside at art exhibitions fall, rather violently, into three, perhaps four, classes.  You have, I dare say, been repeatedly struck by the quaintly inappropriate character in appearance of those of one of these classes.  I mean, of course, those very horsey-looking men, with decidedly “hard” faces, loudly dressed, and dowered with hoarse voices.  They would seem to be bookmakers, exceedingly prosperous publicans, bunco-brokers, militant politicians—­anything save of the Kingdom of Art.  Are their polished Bill Sykes’ exteriors but bizarre domiciles for lofty souls?  I cannot tell.

Here and there, it is true, you find the aesthete in effect among dealers:  the wired moustaches, the spindle-legged voice, and the ardent spirit in discussing his wares with lady visitors.  Our horsey type seems rather ponderous and phlegmatic in this matter.  Then there is, too, a land of art exhibition which is very close indeed to Art, a kind of spirited propaganda, in fact, which is presided over by those of hierarchical character, beings as to hair and cravat, swarthy complexion and mystic gesticulation, holy from the world and mocked by the profane.

But, to my mind, the most satisfying sort of a host to observe at an art exhibition is that of the description of this admirable dealer before us.  Benign, frock-coated, hands clasped behind him, he stands, symbol of gentlemanly, merchantly dignity.  Occasionally he rises upon his toes, and then sinks again to his heels obviously with satisfaction.  But that which proclaims the perfect equity of his mind is this:  his nice recognition of the nuances in human kind.  You perceive that his bow to each of his guests, that he recognises at all, is graduated according to the