"Have you seen any of the picture-shows, Julius?" asked the painter,
Kew.
Courtney slowly abstracted his gaze from without, and turned on his
shoulder with the lazy, languid grace of a cat.
"No," said he, in a half-absent tone; "I have just come up, and I've not
thought of looking into picture-galleries yet."
"Been in the country?" asked Kew.
"Yes, I've been in the country," said Courtney, still as if his
attention was elsewhere.
"It must be looking lovely," said Kew.
"It is--exquisite!" said Courtney, waking up at length to a full glow of
interest. "That's why I don't want to go and stare at pictures. In the
spring, to see the fresh, virginal, delicious green of a bush against an
old dry brick wall, gives a keener pleasure than the best picture that
ever was painted."
"I thought," said Kew, "you had a taste for Art; I thought you enjoyed
it."
"So I do, my dear fellow, but not now,--not at this particular present.
When I feel the warm sun on my back and breathe the soft air, I want no
more; they are more than Art can give--they are Nature, and, of course,
it goes without saying that Art can never compete with Nature in
creating human pleasure.
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