"I was delayed," I stammered. Though what it was that had delayed me I
should have been puzzled to explain! Luckily no questions were asked.

The carriage was ordered round, the hamper, containing our contribution
to the Picnic, was duly stowed away, and we set forth.

There was no need for me to maintain the conversation. Lady Muriel and
Arthur were evidently on those most delightful of terms, where one has

no need to check thought after thought, as it rises to the lips, with
the fear 'this will not be appreciated--this will give' offence--

this will sound too serious--this will sound flippant': like very old
friends, in fullest sympathy, their talk rippled on.

"Why shouldn't we desert the Picnic and go in some other direction?"
she suddenly suggested. "A party of four is surely self-sufficing?

And as for food, our hamper--"
"Why shouldn't we? What a genuine lady's argument!" laughed Arthur.

"A lady never knows on which side the onus probandi--the burden of
proving--lies!"

"Do men always know?" she asked with a pretty assumption of meek docility.
"With one exception--the only one I can think of Dr. Watts, who has

asked the senseless question
'Why should I deprive my neighbour

Of his goods against his will?'
Fancy that as an argument for Honesty! His position seems to be 'I'm

only honest because I see no reason to steal.' And the thief's answer
is of course complete and crushing. 'I deprive my neighbour of his

goods because I want them myself. And I do it against his will because
there's no chance of getting him to consent to it!'"

"I can give you one other exception," I said: "an argument I heard only
to-day---and not by a lady. 'Why shouldn't I walk on my own forehead?'"

"What a curious subject for speculation!" said Lady Muriel, turning to me,
with eyes brimming over with laughter. "May we know who propounded

the question? And did he walk on his own forehead?"
"I ca'n't remember who it was that said it!" I faltered. "Nor where I

heard it!"
"Whoever it was, I hope we shall meet him at the Picnic!" said Lady Muriel.

"It's a far more interesting question than 'Isn't this a picturesque ruin?'
Aren't those autumn-tints lovely?' I shall have to answer those two

questions ten times, at least, this afternoon!"
"That's one of the miseries of Society!" said Arthur. "Why ca'n't

people let one enjoy the beauties of Nature without having to say so
every minute? Why should Life be one long Catechism?"

"It's just as bad at a picture-gallery," the Earl remarked.
"I went to the R.A. last May, with a conceited young artist: and he did

torment me! I wouldn't have minded his criticizing the pictures himself:
but I had to agree with him--or else to argue the point, which would have

been worse!"
"It was depreciatory criticism, of course?" said Arthur.

"I don't see the 'of course' at all."
"Why, did you ever know a conceited man dare to praise a picture?

The one thing he dreads (next to not being noticed) is to be proved
fallible! If you once praise a picture, your character for

infallibility hangs by a thread. Suppose it's a figure-picture, and
you venture to say 'draws well.' Somebody measures it, and finds one of

the proportions an eighth of an inch wrong. You are disposed of as a
critic! 'Did you say he draws well?'

your friends enquire sarcastically, while you hang your head and blush.
No. The only safe course, if any one says 'draws well,' is to shrug

your shoulders. 'Draws well?' you repeat thoughtfully. 'Draws well?
Humph!' That's the way to become a great critic!"

Thus airily chatting, after a pleasant drive through a few miles of
beautiful scenery, we reached the rendezvous--a ruined castle--where

the rest of the picnic-party were already assembled. We spent an hour
or two in sauntering about the ruins: gathering at last, by common

consent, into a few random groups, seated on the side of a mound,
which commanded a good view of the old castle and its surroundings.

The momentary silence, that ensued, was promptly taken possession of or,
more correctly, taken into custody--by a Voice; a voice so smooth,

so monotonous, so sonorous, that one felt, with a shudder, that any
other conversation was precluded, and that, unless some desperate

remedy were adopted, we were fated to listen to a Lecture, of which no
man could foresee the end!

The speaker was a broadly-built man, whose large, flat, pale face was
bounded on the North by a fringe of hair, on the East and West by a

fringe of whisker, and on the South by a fringe of beard--the whole
constituting a uniform halo of stubbly whitey-brown bristles. His

features were so entirely destitute of expression that I could not help
saying to myself--helplessly, as if in the clutches of a night-mare--

"they are only penciled in: no final touches as yet!" And he had a way
of ending every sentence with a sudden smile, which spread like a ripple

over that vast blank surface, and was gone in a moment, leaving behind
it such absolutesolemnity that I felt impelled to murmur

"it was not he: it was somebody else that smiled!"
"Do you observe?" (such was the phrase with which the wretch began each

sentence) "Do you observe the way in which that broken arch, at the
very top of the ruin, stands out against the clear sky? It is placed

exactly right: and there is exactly enough of it. A little more, or a
little less, and all would be utterly spoiled!"

[Image...A lecture, on art]
"Oh gifted architect!" murmured Arthur, inaudibly to all but

Lady Muriel and myself. "Foreseeing the exact effect his work would
have, when in ruins, centuries after his death!"

"And do you observe, where those trees slope down the hill, (indicating
them with a sweep of the hand, and with all the patronising air of the

man who has himself arranged the landscape), "how the mists rising from
the river fill up exactly those intervals where we need indistinctness,

for artistic effect? Here, in the foreground, a few clear touches are
not amiss: but a back-ground without mist, you know! It is simply

barbarous! Yes, we need indistinctness!"
The orator looked so pointedly at me as he uttered these words, that I

felt bound to reply, by murmuring something to the effect that I hardly
felt the need myself--and that I enjoyed looking at a thing, better,

when I could see it.
"Quite so!" the great man sharply took me up. "From your point of

view, that is correctly put. But for anyone who has a soul for Art,
such a view is preposterous. Nature is one thing. Art is another.

Nature shows us the world as it is. But Art--as a Latin author tells
us--Art, you know the words have escaped my memory "Ars est celare

Naturam," Arthur interposed with a delightful promptitude.
"Quite so!" the orator replied with an air of relief. "I thank you!

Ars est celare Naturam but that isn't it." And, for a few peaceful
moments, the orator brooded, frowningly, over the quotation. The

welcome opportunity was seized, and another voice struck into the
silence.

"What a lovely old ruin it is!" cried a young lady in spectacles,
the very embodiment of the March of Mind, looking at Lady Muriel, as the

proper recipient of all really original remarks. "And don't you admire
those autumn-tints on the trees? I do, intensely!"

Lady Muriel shot a meaning glance at me; but replied with admirable
gravity. "Oh yes indeed, indeed! So true!"

"And isn't strange, said the young lady, passing with startling
suddenness from Sentiment to Science, "that the mere impact of certain

coloured rays upon the Retina should give us such exquisite pleasure?"
"You have studied Physiology, then?" a certain young Doctor courteously

enquired.
"Oh, yes! Isn't it a sweet Science?"

Arthur slightly smiled. "It seems a paradox, does it not," he went on,
"that the image formed on the Retina should be inverted?"

"It is puzzling," she candidly admitted. "Why is it we do not see
things upside-down?"