"Not yet I suppose I ought to have gone, but I really seem to have so much else to do."
Mr. Major said nothing. Perhaps he felt that even the most earnest searcher after art might be excused from attending that Academy. Anyhow, that afternoon he himself was there. It was not his first visit by any means. He could have pointed out blindfold where all the most notorious pictures were. The position of one especial canvas he knew particularly well. It was in a far corner of the room, in a bad light, just above the line—exactly the position in which an indifferent work by an unknown man would be most likely to escape the casual visitor's eye. Mr. Major felt this very strongly as he approached that corner. The rooms were crowded—though not, on that occasion, overcrowded—but just there there was not a soul. Apparently his picture was not attracting the least attention—nothing is more unsatisfactory to a struggling artist than to be aware of that. He advanced towards the slighted work of art with an uncomfortable feeling about the pit of his stomach. Suddenly he started. He hurried forward. The frame was starred!
"By Jove!" he exclaimed out loud. "Gill was right; it's sold."
In his surprise he was unconscious of the fact that he was staring at the frame as though he were paralysed by the merits of the painting. But others saw him. More people came to stare. Then he enjoyed that rarest of all rare pleasures—the pleasure which the gentleman enjoyed in Lord Lytton's novel, The Disowned—the pleasure of hearing his work criticised with perfect frankness.
