striking? I believe I hear the carriage at the door. I must beg of you to
excuse me. You know my duties are pressing, and managers wait for no one.
Good-evening, Mr. McAllister."

CHAPTER XI.

"Because thou hast believed the wheels of life
Stand never idle, but go always round;
Hast labored, but with purpose; hast become
Laborious, persevering, serious, firm--
For this thy track across the fretful foam
Of vehement actions without scope or term,
Call'd history, keeps a splendor, due to wit,
Which saw one clue to life and followed it."

Matthew Arnold.

The day so long anxiously looked for of the great reception at the Royal
Academy came at last. Fortunately the weather was beautiful, and the sun
shone on the London streets with an unusual brightness even for that time
of year.

Long rows of carriages lined the streets approaching the entrance to the
Academy. The great staircase leading into the main hall was carpeted with
crimson baize, for Royal visitors were expected, and on each stair were
placed luxuriant pots of hothouse plants which perfumed the heated air
with an almost over-powering fragrance.

As the lucky possessors of invitation cards passed in, a footman
resplendent in crimson and gold livery handed each a catalogue of the
pictures.

What a motley throng it was! Bohemia rubbing shoulders with orthodox
conventionality. Duchesses, actors, artists, bishops, newspaper men out
at elbows, deans, girl art students, spruce looking Eton boys in tall
hats and short jackets, all eagerly pushing their way to the envied goal.
A frantic endeavor it was, too. To tell the truth, few of the throng came
to see the pictures; most of them, firmly believing that "the proper
study of mankind is man," assembled to view each other. Of course there
were some conscientious art critics, but these were few and far between.

The Gallery rapidly filled, and the guests by degrees formed themselves
into little groups.

Four or five men of the most Bohemian type were gathered in front of
a large canvas hung on the line, an enviable position. They were all
foreigners, and were attracting much attention by their shrill voices and
gesticulations. "Yes," said one, a little Frenchman, "I know he's not an
Englishman, no Englishman ever painted like that. No, I should think not.
The tone, the purity, the--the----"

"No, he's not an Englishman," said a representative of the British nation
passing ju