Urania was providing the greater part of the conversation. She had spent
a delightful fortnight in Cavendish Square at the end of November, and
had been everywhere and seen everything--winter exhibitions--new plays.

'I had no idea there could be so many nice people in town out of the
season,' she said with a grand air. 'But then my father knows all the
nicest people; he cultivates no Philistines.'

The Vicar's wife required to have this last remark explained to her. She
only knew the Philistines of Scripture, an unfortunate people who seem
always to have been in the wrong.

'And you saw some good pictures?' inquired Aunt Betsy.

'A few good ones and acres of daubs,' replied Urania. 'Why will so many
people paint? There are pictures which are an affliction to the eye--an
outrage upon common sense. Instead of a huge gallery lined from floor to
ceiling with commonplace, why cannot we have a Temple with a single
Watts, or Burne Jones, or Dante Bossetti, which one could go in and
worship quietly in a subdued light?'

'That is a horridly expensive way of seeing pictures,' said the Vicar's
wife; 'I hate paying a shilling for seeing a single picture. If it is
ever so good one feels one has had so little for one's money. Now at the
Academy there are always at least fifty pictures which delight me.'

'You must be very easy to please,' said Urania.

'I am,' replied the Vicar's wife, curtly, 'and that is one of the
blessings for which I am thankful to God. I hate your _nil admiraris_,'