From that time good modern pictures have risen in the scale.  Even as articles of commerce and safe investments for money, they have now (as some disinterested collectors who dine at certain annual dinners I know of, can testify) distanced the old pictures in the race.  The modern painters who have survived the brunt of the battle, have lived to see pictures for which they once asked hundreds, selling for thousands, and the young generation making incomes by the brush in one year, which it would have cost the old heroes of the easel ten to accumulate.  The posterity of Mr. Pickup still do a tolerable stroke of business (making bright modern masters for the market which is glutted with the dingy old material), and will, probably, continue to thrive and multiply in the future:  the one venerable institution of this world which we can safely count upon as likely to last, being the institution of human folly.  Nevertheless, if a wise man of the reformed taste wants a modern picture, there are places for him to go to now where he may be sure of getting it genuine; where, if the artist is not alive to vouch for his work, the facts at any rate have not had time to die which vouch for the dealer who sells it.  In my time matters were rather different.  The painters we throve by had died long enough ago for pedigrees to get confused, and identities disputable; and if I had been desirous of really purchasing a genuine Old Master for myself—­speaking as a practical man—­I don’t know where I should have gone to ask for one, or whose judgment I could have safely relied on to guard me from being cheated, before I bought it.

We are stopping a long time in the picture-gallery, you will say.  I am very sorry—­but we must stay a little longer, for the sake of a living picture, the gem of the collection.

I was still admiring Mr. Pickup’s Old Masters, when a dirty little boy opened the door of the gallery, and introduced a young lady.

My heart—­fancy my having a heart!—­gave one great bound in me.  I recognized the charming person whom I had followed in the street.

Her veil was not down this time.  All the beauty of her large, soft, melancholy, brown eyes beamed on me.  Her delicate complexion became suddenly suffused with a lovely rosy flush.  Her glorious black hair—­no!  I will make an effort, I will suppress my ecstasies.  Let me only say that she evidently recognized me.  Will you believe it?—­I felt myself coloring as I bowed to her.  I never blushed before in my life.  What a very curious sensation it is!

The horrid boy claimed her attention with a grin.

“Master’s engaged,” he said.  “Please to wait here.”

“I don’t wish to disturb Mr. Pickup,” she answered.

What a voice!  No!  I am drifting back into ecstasies:  her voice was worthy of her—­I say no more.

“If you will be so kind as to show him this,” she proceeded; “he knows what it is.  And please say, my father is very ill and very anxious.  It will be quite enough if Mr. Pickup will only send me word by you—­Yes or No.”