"Pictures are like wine, and want age, you think?"
"Yes, and statues too, and buildings above all things. The colours of new paintings are so glaring, and the faces are so bright and self-conscious, that they look to me when I go to the exhibition like coloured prints in a child's new picture-book. It is the same thing with buildings. One sees all the points, and nothing is left to the imagination."
"I find I have come across a real critic."
"I hope, at any rate, I am not a sham one;" and Miss Van Siever as she said this looked very savage.
"I shouldn't take you to be a sham in anything."
"Ah, that would be saying a great deal for myself. Who can undertake to say that he is not a sham in anything?"
As she said this the ladies were getting up. So Miss Van Siever also got up, and left Mr. Conway Dalrymple to consider whether he could say or could think of himself that he was not a sham in anything. As regarded Miss Clara Van Siever, he began to think that he should not object to paint her portrait, even though there might be no sugar-plum. He would certainly do it as Jael; and he would, if he dared, insert dimly in the background some idea of the face of the mother, half-appearing, half-vanishing, as the spirit of the sacrifice. He was composing his picture, while Mr. Dobbs Broughton was arranging himself and his bottles.
"Musselboro," he said, "I'll come up between you and Crosbie. Mr. Eames, though I run away from you, the claret shall remain; or, rather, it shall flow backwards and forwards as rapidly as you will."
"I'll keep it moving," said Johnny.
"Do; there's a good fellow. It's a nice glass of wine, isn't it? Old Ramsby, who keeps as good a stock of stuff as any wine-merchant in London, gave me a hint, three or four years ago, that he'd a lot of tidy Bordeaux. It's '41, you know. He had ninety dozen, and I took it all."
"What was the figure, Broughton?" said Crosbie, asking the question which he knew was expected.
"Well, I only gave one hundred and four for it then; it's worth a hundred and twenty now. I wouldn't sell a bottle of it for any money. Come, Dalrymple, pass it round; but fill your glass first."
"Thank you, no; I don't like it. I'll drink sherry."
"Don't like it!" said Dobbs Broughton.
"It's strange, isn't it? but I don't."
"I thought you particularly told me to drink his claret?" said Johnny to his friend afterwards.
"So I did," said Conway; "and wonderfully good wine it is. But
