ly at any item in the
exhibition, by the approach of an officious attendant, who presses you to
purchase it. He begins by flattery; he felicitates you on your choice of
the _best_ picture in the room--the one that has been 'universally
admired by critics and collectors.'

The fact of its not being sold is due (he naively confesses) to its
rather high price; several offers have been submitted, and if not sold at
the catalogued amount the artist has promised to consider them; but it is
very unlikely that the drawing will remain long without a red ticket,
'_as people come back to town to-morrow_.' There is the stab, the stab
in the back while you were drinking honey; the tragedy of Corfe Castle
repeated. _People with_ a capital _P_ in picture-dealing circles does
not mean what they call the _Hoypolloy_; it means the great ones of the
earth, the _monde_, the Capulets and Montagues with wealth or rank. You
have been measured by the revolting attendant. He does not count you
with them, or you would not be in town to-day; something has escaped you
in the _Morning Post_, some function to which you were not invited, or of
which you knew nothing. If you happen to be a Capulet you feel mildly
amused, and in order to correct the wrong impression and let the
underling know your name and address you purchase the drawing; for the
greatest have their weak side. But, if not, and you have simply risen
from the 'purple of commerce,' you are determined not to lag behind stuck-
up Society; you will revenge yourself for the thousand injuries of
Fortunatus; you will deprive him of his prerogative to buy the _best_.
The purchase is concluded. You go home with your nerves slightly shaken
from the gloved contest--you go home to face your wife and children,
wearing a look of wistful inquiry on their irregular upturned faces, as
when snow lies upon the ground, they scent Christmas, and you look up
with surprise at the whiteness of the ceiling. Though in private life a
contributor to the press, in public I used to be one of those importunate
salesmen.

It was my duty, my pleasurable duty, so to act for Mr. Beerbohm's
caricatures when exhibited at a fashionable West-end gallery where among
the visitors I recognised many of his models. I observe that when Mr.
Beerbohm is a friend of his victim he is generally at his best; that he
is always excellent and often superb if he is in sympathy with the
personality of that victim, however brutally