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 precise degree of that person's value to Art; that to some few, royal
patrons presumably, being at an angle of forty-five degrees; while a
common amateur of Art is acknowledged by one of five. Where--to continue
the paraphrase of a pleasant observation upon Mr. George Brummell--it is
a mere question of recognising the fact that a certain person dwells on
the same planet with Art "a slight relaxation of the features" is made to
suffice.