ite child.

The rings at the bell began to multiply at compound interest. Madonna
was hardly still at the window for a moment, so many were the visitors
whose approach up the garden walk it was now necessary for her to
signalize. Down-stairs, all the vacant seats left in the painting room
were filling rapidly; and the ranks of standers in the back places were
getting two-deep already.

There was Lady Brambledown (whose calls at the studio always lasted the
whole morning), sitting in the center, or place of honor, taking snuff
fiercely, talking liberal sentiments in a cracked voice, and apparently
feeling extreme pleasure in making the respectable middle classes stare
at her in reverent amazement. Also, two Royal Academicians--a
saturnine Academician, swaddled in a voluminous cloak; and a benevolent
Academician, with a slovenly umbrella, and a perpetual smile. Also, the
doctor and his wife, who admired the massive frame of "Columbus," but
said not a word about the picture itself. Also, Mr. Bullivant, the
sculptor, and Mr. Hemlock, the journalist, exchanging solemnly that
critical small talk, in which such words as "sensuous," "aesthetic,"
"objective," and "subjective," occupy prominent places, and out of which
no man ever has succeeded, or ever will succeed, in extricating an
idea. Also, Mr. Gimble, fluently laudatory, with the whole alphabet of
Art-Jargon at his fingers' ends, and without the slightest comprehension
of the subject to embarrass him in his flow of language. Also, certain
respectable families who tried vainly to understand the pictures,
opposed by other respectable families who never tried at all, but
confined themselves exclusively to the Dowager Countess. Also, the
obscure general visitors, who more than made up in enthusiasm what
they wanted in distinction. And, finally, the absolute democracy, or
downright low-life party among the spectators--represented for the
time being by Mr. Blyth's gardener, and Mr. Blyth's cook's father--who,
standing together modestly outside the door, agreed, in awe-struck
whispers, that the "Golden Age" was a Tasty Thing, and "Columbus in
sight of the New World," a Beautiful Piece.

All Valentine's restlessness before the Visitors arrived was as
nothing compared with his rapturous activity, now that they were fairly
assembled. Not once had he stood still, or ceased talking since the
first spectator entered the room. And not once, probably, would he have
permitted either