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, as that
odd little Frenchman said to me last year, we shall have dropped
irretrievably into the "lowest depth of mediocrity."'

'Kendal!' said an eager voice close to his ear, while a hand was laid on
his arm, 'do you know that girl?'

Kendal turned in astonishment and saw a short oldish man, in whom he
recognised a famous artist, standing by, his keen mobile face wearing an
expression of strong interest and inquiry.

'What girl?' he asked, with a smile, shaking his questioner by the hand.

'That girl in black, standing by Orchardson's picture. Why, you must know
her by sight! It's Miss Bretherton, the actress. Did you ever see such
beauty? I must get somebody to introduce me to her. There's nothing worth
looking at since she came in. But, by ill luck, nobody here seems to know
her.'

Eustace Kendal, to whom the warm artist's temperament of his friend was
well known, turned with some amusement towards the picture named, and