Read Gillespie and I for Free Online Page A

crammed that even the large West Room felt overcrowded. My friends formed a merry party, having come from a late luncheon; my own mood, by contrast, was sombre, and such was my state of mind that I soon tired of their jollity, and so contrived to drift away from them, and wander about, alone, gazing at the various artworks.
    At one point, I found myself in a relatively tranquil corner of the East Gallery, lingering in front of a small canvas, a domestic interior, entitled The Studio . The colours of this picture were particularly striking against the scarlet damask of the wall. The painting depicted an elegant lady in a black frock. She was standing in what appeared to be an attic room, an easel in the background the only suggestion that this loft belonged to an artist. A shaft of light fell from a skylight window, illuminating the woman’s figure. Her hat was trimmed with a short, diaphanous veil. In one hand, she held a little bag of seed, which she was feeding to a canary in a cage. Although she seemed to be a guest in the house, one formed the impression—simply from the way that she fed the bird—that she was a frequent visitor. The expression on her face was intriguing: she looked so placid and content, lost in thought, perhaps—even—in love.
    Of course, I would like to be able to say that, upon first viewing, I was seized by the genius in the conception and execution of this painting, The Studio . However, knowing little about art, I did not, at the time, single it out as exceptional. Indeed, I lingered in front of it—in what the Scots might call a ‘dwam’—primarily because that corner of the room happened, just at that moment, to be less crowded.
    My reverie was suddenly interrupted when a pair of hands grasped me by the shoulders and began to draw me away from the painting. For a second, I assumed that my friends had found me, and were dragging me off to Romano’s but, as I turned, I realised that I was simply being moved to one side by a complete stranger: a bearded gentleman, in evening dress.
    â€˜Madam, if you would,’ he said, and deposited me a few feet away, next to a gilded table. Then he turned to his companions, a group of important-looking gentlemen. ‘Now, as I said, this picture may be of interest. Note if you will…’
    As he went on speaking, I continued to stand where I had been placed, somewhat stunned at having been shoved aside as though I were no more than an irksome piece of furniture. The bearded fellow, I deduced, was a guide, or curator of the exhibition; his companions—a group of be-whiskered gents—were, presumably, potential buyers of the work.
    One man, younger than the rest, stood at the back of the group. In comparison to the others, his evening dress was not quite so impeccable, and he was clean shaven, except for a small moustache. While the other men followed the curator’s every word, this young fellow stared, rather crossly, at the floor. His face was flushed, and I wondered, at first, whether he had taken too much sherry.
    At that moment, the curator beckoned to him, calling out: ‘Sir—would you care to add a few words—perhaps about your intentions in painting this work?’
    The young man frowned at him. ‘No, sir, I would not,’ he said, in a rich, Scottish brogue. ‘First of all, a picture should speak for itself—’
    â€˜Indeed,’ said the bearded guide, with a smile, and then he nodded, indulgently, at the other men. ‘So say many of our young artists.’
    The painter stepped forward. ‘But that’s beside the point,’ he said, and then he extended his arm, to indicate me. ‘I think you should apologise to this lady here.’
    The curator gave a short laugh. ‘What?’
    â€˜Right enough, her hat is tall,’ the painter continued, ‘and it obscured our view, but that’s no excuse. We could have waited, or you could simply