English, too. One of their young men visited us at Geneva during the
summer. I never quite made out who invited him; I have half an idea that
he invited himself. He was a great trial. Queer about the English, isn't
it? How can people who are so clever and capable in practical things ever
be such insolent tom-fools in social things? Do you know Arthur Paston?"

"No. Was he one of them?

"Not exactly. He lives here. We thought we had Americanized him; but now
he has slipped back and is almost as bad as he was to start with. Arthur
Scodd-Paston--that's the way his cards read to-day. Do you care for
paintings?"

"Of course. Is Arthur Scodd-Paston like one?"

"You bad girl! Well, we might just stick our noses in the picture-gallery
for a minute.

"We're almost beginners in this branch of industry," she expounded, as
she stood beside Jane in the center of the room under the coldly diffused
glare of the skylight. "In my young days it was all Bierstadt and De
Haas; there wasn't supposed to be anything beyond. But as soon as I began
to hear about Millet and the Barbizon crowd, I saw there was. Well, I set
to work, as usual. I studied and learned. I _want_ to learn. I want to
move; I want to keep right up with the times and the people. I got books
and photographs, and I went to all the galleries. I read the artists'
biographies and took in all the loan collections. Now I'm loaning, too.
Some of these things are going to the Art Institute next week--that
Daubigny, for one. It's little, but it's good; there couldn't be anything
more like him, could there?