_Caroline._ Yes. Mother. Or just come in from one.

_Her Mother._ Do see what it's called. "_The Morning Canter_" or
"_Back from the Row_"--something of that kind, I _expect_ it would be.

_Caroline._ All it says is, "_A Harmony in Green and Rose_."

_The Mother_ (_disappointed_). Now, why can't he give it some
_sensible_ name, instead of taking away all one's interest!

_The Phil. Uncle_ (_whom a succession of Symphonies and Harmonies has
irritated to the verge of fury_). Don't talk to me, Sir! Don't tell me
any of these things are pictures. Look at _this_--a young woman in an
outlandish dress sitting on the floor--on the bare floor!--in a litter
of Japanese sketches! And he has the confounded impertinence to call
it a "_Caprice_"--a "_Caprice in Purple and Gold_." _I_'d purple and
gold him, Sir, if I had _my_ way! Where's the _sense_ in such things?
What do they _teach_ you? What _story_ do they tell? Where's the
_human interest_ in them? Depend upon it, Sir, these things are
rubbish--sheer rubbish, according to all _my_ notions of Art, and I
think you'll allow I _ought_ to know something about it?

_His Nephew_ (_provoked beyond prudence_). You certainly ought to know
more than _that_, my dear Unc--Are you going?

_The Uncle_ (_grimly_). Yes--to see my Solicitor, Sir. (_To himself,
savagely._) That confounded young prig will find he's paid dear enough
for his precious Whistlers--if I don't have a fit in the cab!