“Is that,” he questioned, “your Carlo Dolce? The style is much the same, I see; but it seems to me lacking in his peculiar sentiment.”

            “Oh, but it’s not a Carlo Dolce: it’s a Piero della Francesca, sir!” burst in triumph from the trembling Lewis.

            His father sternly faced him. “It’s a copy, you mean? I thought so!”

            “No, no; not a copy, it’s by a great painter…a much greater…”

            Mr. Raycie had reddened sharply at his mistake. To conceal his natural annoyance he assumed a still more silken manner. “In that case,” he said, “I think I should like to see the inferior painters first. Where is the Carlo Dolce?”

            “There is no Carlo Dolce,” said Lewis, white to the lips.

            The young man’s next distinct recollection was of standing, he knew not how long afterward, before the armchair in which his father had sunk down, almost as white and shaken as himself.

            “This,” stammered Mr. Raycie, “this is going to bring back my gout…” But when Lewis entreated: “Oh, sir, do let us drive back quietly to the country, and give me a chance later to explain…to put my case”…the old gentleman had struck through the pleading with a furious wave of his stick.

            “Explain later? Put your case later? It’s just what I insist upon your doing here and now!” And Mr. Raycie added hoarsely, and as if in actual physical anguish: “I understand that young John Huzzard returned from Rome last week with a Raphael.”

            After that, Lewis heard himself—as if with the icy detachment of a spectator—marshalling his arguments, pleading the cause he hoped his pictures would have pleaded for him, dethroning the old Powers and Principalities, and setting up these new names in their place. It was first of all the names that stuck in Mr. Raycie’s throat: after spending a life-time committing to memory the correct pronunciation of words like Lo Spagnoletto and Giulio Romano, it was bad enough, his wrathful eyes seemed to say, to have to begin a new set of verbal gymnastics before you could be sure of saying to a friend with careless accuracy: “And this is my Giotto da Bondone.”

            But that was only the first shock, soon forgotten in the rush of greater tribulation. For one might conceivably learn how to pronounced Giotto da Bondone, and even enjoy doing so, provided the friend in question recognized the name and bowed to its authority. But to have your effort received by a blank stare, and the playful request: “You’ll have to say that over again, please”—to know that, in going the round of the gallery (the Raycie Gallery!) the same stare and the same request were likely to be repeated before each picture; the bitterness of this was so great that Mr. Raycie, without exaggeration, might have likened his case to that of Agag.

            “God! God! God! Carpatcher, you say this other fellow’s called? Kept him back till the last because it’s the gem of the collection, did you? Carpatcher—well, he’d have done better to stick to his trade. Something to do with those new European steam-cars, I suppose, eh?” Mr. Raycie was so incensed that his irony was less subtle than usual. “And Angelico you say did that kind of Noah’s Ark soldier in pink armour on gold leaf? Well, there I’ve caught you tripping, my boy. Not AngelicO, AngelicA; Angelica Kauffman was a lady. And the damned swindler who foisted that barbarous daub on you as a picture of hers deserves to be drawn and quartered—and shall be, sir, by God, if the law can reach him! He shall disgorge every penny he’s rooked you out of, or my name’s not Halston Raycie! A bargain…you say the thing was a bargain? Why, the price of a clean postage stamp would be too dear for it! God—my son; do you realize you had a trust to carry out?”

            “Yes, sir, yes; and it’s just because—”

            “You might have written; you might at least have placed your views before me…”

            How could Lewis say: “If I had, I knew you’d have refused to let me buy the pictures?” He could only stammer: “I did allude to the revolution in taste…new names coming up…you may remember…”

            “Revolution! New names! Who says so? I had a letter last week from the London dealers to whom I especially recommended you, telling me that an undoubted Guido Reni was coming into the market this summer.”

            “Oh, the dealers—they don’t know!”

            “The dealers…don’t?…Who does…except yourself?” Mr. Raycie pronounced in a white sneer.

            Lewis, as white, still held his ground. “I wrote you, sir, about my friends; in Italy, and afterward in England.”

            “Well, God damn it, I never heard of one of their names before, either; no more’n of these painters of yours here. I supplied you with the names of all the advisers you needed, and all the painters, too; I all but made the collection for you myself, before you started…I was explicit enough, in all conscience, wasn’t I?”

            Lewis smiled faintly. “That’s what I hoped the pictures would be…”

            “What? Be what? What’d you mean?”

            “Be explicit…Speak for themselves…make you see that their painters are already superseding some of the better known…”

            Mr. Raycie gave an awful laugh. “They are, are they?” In whose estimation? Your friends’, I suppose. What’s the name, again, of that fellow you met in Italy, who picked ’em out for you?”

            “Ruskin—John Ruskin,” said Lewis.

            Mr. Raycie’s laugh, prolonged, gathered up into itself a fresh shower of expletives. “Ruskin—Ruskin—just plain John Ruskin, eh? And who is this great John Ruskin, who sets God A’mighty right in his judgments? Who’d you say John Ruskin’s father was, now?”

            “A respected wine-merchant in London, sir.”

            Mr. Raycie ceased to laugh: he looked at his son with an expression of unutterable disgust.

            “Retail?”

            “I…believe so…”

            “Faugh!” said Mr. Raycie.

            “It wasn’t only Ruskin, father…I told you of those other friends in London, whom I met on the way home. They inspected the pictures, and all of them agreed that…that the collection would some day be very valuable.”

            “Some day—did they give you a date…the month and the year? Ah, those other friends; yes. You said there was a Mr. Brown and a Mr. Hunt and a Mr. Rossiter, was it? Well, I never heard of any of those names either—except perhaps in a trades’ directory.”

            “It’s not Rossiter, father: Dante Rossetti.”

            “Excuse me: Rossetti. And what does Mr.