'I wonder why not. You said you loved this park. There's nothing more
beautiful in the country--those trees, this quiet, misty lake; it is
exquisite, and yet I suppose it wouldn't make a picture.'

'I don't know. I've often thought of trying to do something with it.
But what's beautiful to look at doesn't do well in a picture. The
hills and dales in the Green Park are perfect--their artificiality is
their beauty. There's one bit that I like especially.'

'Which is that?'

'The bit by Buckingham Palace where the sheep feed; the trees there
are beautiful, large spreading trees, and they give the place a false
air of Arcady. But in a picture it wouldn't do.'

'Why?'

'I can't say. I don't think it would mean much if it were painted.'

'You couldn't have a shepherd, or if you had he'd have to be cross-
gartered, and his lady-love in flowery silk would have to be sitting
on a bank, and there is not a bank there, you'd have to invent one.'

'That's it; the park is eighteenth century, a comedy of the
restoration.'

'But why couldn't you paint that?' said Mildred, pointing to where a
beautiful building passed across the vista.