the remaining sixteen articles as she could encompass, and sighed."

"I knew an Italian countess," said the Woman of the World; "she had
been at school with mamma. She never would go half a mile out of
her way for scenery. 'Why should I?' she would say. 'What are the
painters for? If there is anything good, let them bring it to me
and I will look at it. She said she preferred the picture to the
real thing, it was so much more artistic. In the landscape itself,
she complained, there was sure to be a chimney in the distance, or a
restaurant in the foreground, that spoilt the whole effect. The
artist left it out. If necessary, he could put in a cow or a pretty
girl to help the thing. The actual cow, if it happened to be there
at all, would probably be standing the wrong way round; the girl, in
all likelihood, would be fat and plain, or be wearing the wrong hat.
The artist knew precisely the sort of girl that ought to be there,
and saw to it that she was there, with just the right sort of hat.
She said she had found it so all through life--the poster was always
an improvement on the play."

"It is rapidly coming to that," answered the Minor Poet. "Nature,
as a well known painter once put it, is not 'creeping up' fast
enough to keep pace with our ideals. In advanced Germany they
improve the waterfalls and ornament the rocks. In Paris they paint
the babies' faces."

"You can hardly lay the blame for that upon civilisation," pleaded
the Girton Girl. "The ancient Briton had a pretty taste in woads."

"Man's first feeble steps upon the upward path of Art," assented the
Minor Poet, "culminating in the rouge-pot and the hair-dye."