study of mankind is man," assembled to view each other. Of course there
were some conscientious art critics, but these were few and far between.

The Gallery rapidly filled, and the guests by degrees formed themselves
into little groups.

Four or five men of the most Bohemian type were gathered in front of
a large canvas hung on the line, an enviable position. They were all
foreigners, and were attracting much attention by their shrill voices and
gesticulations. "Yes," said one, a little Frenchman, "I know he's not an
Englishman, no Englishman ever painted like that. No, I should think not.
The tone, the purity, the--the----"

"No, he's not an Englishman," said a representative of the British nation
passing just then, and pausing to take up the cudgels for his country.
"He's not an Englishman, but I don't like your prejudice; he's not a
Frenchman either, for that matter, so you can't claim him."

"What is he, then?" demanded the little Frenchman.

"He's a Canadian."

"Canadian, ah! What's his name?"

"Lacroix."

"Oh! he's half French at any rate," said the little artist triumphantly,
"and I know he studied in Paris. Well, this is a masterpiece I know, no
matter who painted it."