“I wonder,” Mr. King was saying, “if these excursionists are representative of general American life?”

“If they are,” said the artist, “there’s little here for my purpose.  A good many of them seem to be foreigners, or of foreign origin.  Just as soon as these people get naturalized, they lose the picturesqueness they had abroad.”

“Did it never occur to your highness that they may prefer to be comfortable rather than picturesque, and that they may be ignorant that they were born for artistic purposes?” It was the low voice of Miss Lamont, and that demure person looked up as if she really wanted information.

“I doubt about the comfort,” the artist began to reply.

“And so do I,” said Miss Sumner.  “What on earth do you suppose made those girls come up here in white dresses, blowing about in the wind, and already drabbled?  Did you ever see such a lot of cheap millinery?  I haven’t seen a woman yet with the least bit of style.”

“Poor things, they look as if they’d never had a holiday before in their lives, and didn’t exactly know what to do with it,” apologized Miss Lamont.

“Don’t you believe it.  They’ve been to more church and Sunday-school picnics than you ever attended.  Look over there!”

It was a group seated about their lunch-baskets.  A young gentleman, the comedian of the patty, the life of the church sociable, had put on the hat of one of the girls, and was making himself so irresistibly funny in it that all the girls tittered, and their mothers looked a little shamefaced and pleased.

“Well,” said Mr. King, “that’s the only festive sign I’ve seen.  It’s more like a funeral procession than a pleasure excursion.  What impresses me is the extreme gravity of these people—­no fun, no hilarity, no letting themselves loose for a good time, as they say.  Probably they like it, but they seem to have no capacity for enjoying themselves; they have no vivacity, no gayety—­what a contrast to a party in France or Germany off for a day’s pleasure—­no devices, no resources.”

“Yes, it’s all sad, respectable, confoundedly uninteresting.  What does the doctor say?” asked the artist.

“I know what the doctor will say,” put in Miss Summer, “but I tell you that what this crowd needs is missionary dressmakers and tailors.  If I were dressed that way I should feel and act just as they do.  Well, Selina?”

“It’s pretty melancholy.  The trouble is constant grinding work and bad food.  I’ve been studying these people.  The women are all—­”

“Ugly,” suggested the artist.