"Is it a Rubens, or is it not? That is the question," drawled Frank
Parselle, as he dropped his eyeglass.

On an easel in Lady Merivale's drawing-room, stood a picture, before
which were grouped a small assembly of her friends, including one or two
artists and connoisseurs.

Lord Merivale was also present, having been dragged away from his
beloved farm, and worried into the purchase of this picture--the usual
"Portrait of a gentleman"--by his beautiful wife. He himself knew
nothing whatsoever about it, either as to its value or its genuineness;
it was worn and dirty-looking, and, in his opinion, would have been dear
at a five-pound note.

"Yes, that is the question," echoed Lord Standon. "It's not a bad face
though. I should vote it genuine right enough."

"It's extremely dirty," yawned Lord Merivale, casting a longing look at
the green grass of the park opposite and thinking of his new shorthorns
in Somersetshire.

"Philistine!" exclaimed his wife, tapping him playfully on the arm. "You
are incorrigible. Dirty! why, that is tone."

"Ah," returned her husband, turning away and gazing admiringly at a
bull by Potter. He was as wise as he had been before; for the jargon of
Art and fashionable society was not one of his accomplishments.

"I tell you who would be a good judge," put in Mr. Paxhorn.