She looked at the portrait, and then at Mrs. Harrison, and something seemed to strike her. It was the thing that had struck me, months before, when I first saw what Lathom had made of it. She grew a little confused, and Lathom struck in.
“ Mrs. Harrison and you would agree about the importance of subject-matter,” he said. “I can’t persuade her to admire Laura Knight.”
Mrs. Harrison blushed a little.
“I think they are very clever pictures,” she said, a trifle defiantly, and with a side-glance at her husband, “but they are rather peculiar for a woman to have painted, aren’t they? Not very refined. And I mean, they are so unnatural. I’m sure people don’t walk about, even in their bedrooms, like that, with nothing on. And I think pictures ought to make one feel—uplifted, somehow.”
“Come, come, Margaret,” said Harrison, “you don’t know what you are talking about.”
“But you said the same thing yourself,” she