commonly accepted standpoint, but from that of an artist. They let me
roam about and sketch what _I_ wanted, not what _they_ wanted. They gave
me every means of transport, and such suggestions as they made as to
possible subjects were excellent and offered with such tact that there
was no difficulty in abstaining from sketching or going on with
something else.

How often does the unfortunate painter suffer from the well-meaning
host, who with an admiration for his calling, which is both extremely
flattering and tremendously inconvenient, tries to do him
well--especially if he dabbles a little in water-colour painting
himself. An organized attack on all the real or supposed picturesque
bits in the neighbourhood is planned and the members of his family outdo
each other in praiseworthy endeavours to help on the great cause of Art.
The campaign is prefaced by a violent discussion at G.H.Q. as to the
best landscape within easy reach, and Millie, who has had lessons in
pastelles, prevails over Mollie, who merely does pen painting. The
wretched painter is then hauled triumphantly into a car surrounded by
the artistic, who regard him with almost heathen veneration and feel
thrilled by the fact that they, too, observe that the sky is blue and
the trees are green. Arriving at the chosen scene and viewing it from
the spot "from which they always take it," the unfortunate artist is
stood or seated down, book in hand, complete with paintbox and water,
and expected to begin. _He_ does not have any voice in the choosing of
the view. It is high noon. The sun is right in front of him and
everything is so hard that even Turner could make nothing of it. The
worshippers at the shrine of art stand round in awed anticipation,
waiting for the masterpiece.

It is useless for him to protest that the conditions are impossible.