The women of this audience frequently are rather dowdy, and shapen in
very individual fashions. The men generally are elderly beings, now and
then reminiscent of the period of Horace Greeley. They are very bald, or
with untrimmed white (not grey) hair, and, sometimes, Uncle-Sam-like
whiskers. They are usually very wrinkled as to trowsers and overcoats.
Here and there among the gentlemen of this company is to be seen one who
looks strikingly like Emile Zola, or the late Mr. Pierpont Morgan
slightly gone to seed. All these charming folk make of looking at
old-fashioned pictures a very busy occupation, and also in effect a
rather mundane occupation, as though they were alertly considering the
possibility of making a selection from among a variety of serviceable
kitchen chairs.

Argumenting the throng are authentic representatives of the world of
fashion; some who appear to be students; the ever present foreigners,
including the frequently present Jap; a number of those enigmatic beings
who continually take notes at art exhibitions; and a respectable quota of
those ladies we always have with us at art exhibitions who in the
presence of pictures and it necessary to say: "Isn't that wonderful,
marvellous tone quality!" Occasionally a decidedly quaint student of Art
strolls in, past the imposing flunky (in finery a bit faded) at the door,
strolls in in the form of a lodger in Madison Square. He looks at the
pictures as if thoughtfully, but without animation.

Well, we have now covered, in an elementary way, about every important
species of art show, except one, the most human perhaps of all, that held
annually on Fifty-seventh Street. We should hardly have time to go up
there to-day. I'll tell you about it. There are several reasons why
this exhibition is the most human perhaps of all. One is that more