Dante Rossetti’s father do? Sell macaroni, I presume?”

            Lewis was silent, and Mr. Raycie went on, speaking now with a deadly steadiness: “The friends I sent you to were judges of art, sir; men who know what a picture’s worth; not one of ’em but could pick out a genuine Raphael. Couldn’t you find ’em when you got to England? Or hadn’t they the time to spare for you? You’d better not,” Mr. Raycie added, “tell me that, for I know how they’d have received your father’s son.”

            “Oh, most kindly…they did indeed, sir…”

            “Ay; but that didn’t suit you. You didn’t want to be advised. You wanted to show off before a lot of ignoramuses like yourself. You wanted—how’d I know what you wanted? It’s as if I’d never given you an instruction or laid a charge on you! And the money—God! Where’d it go to? Buying this? Nonsense—.” Mr. Raycie raised himself heavily on his stick and fixed his angry eyes on his son. “Own up, Lewis; tell me they got it out of you at cards. Professional gamblers the lot, I make no doubt; your Ruskin and your Morris and your Rossiter. Make a business to pick up young American greenhorns on their travels, I daresay…No? Not that, you say? Then—women? God A’mighty, Lewis,” gasped Mr. Raycie, tottering toward his son with outstretched stick, “I’m no blue-nosed Puritan, sir, and I’d a damn sight rather you told me you’d spent it on a woman, every penny of it, than let yourself be fleeced like a simpleton, buying these things that look more like cuts out o’ Foxe’s book of Martyrs than Originals of the Old Masters for a Gentleman’s Gallery…Youth’s youth…Gad, sir, I’ve been young myself…a fellow’s got to go through his apprenticeship…Own up now: women?”

            “Oh, not women—”

            “Not even!” Mr. Raycie groaned. “All in pictures, then? Well, say no more to me now…I’ll get home, I’ll get home…” He cast a last apoplectic glance about the room. “The Raycie Gallery! That pack of bones and mummers’ finery!…Why, let alone the rest, there’s not a full-bodied female among ’em…Do you know what those Madonna’s of yours are like, my son? Why, there ain’t one of ’em that don’t remind me of a bad likeness of poor Treeshy Kent…I should say you’d hired half the sign-painters of Europe to do her portrait for you—if you could imagine your wanting it…No, sir! I don’t need your arm,” Mr. Raycie snarled, heaving his great bulk painfully across the hall. He withered Lewis with a last look from the doorstep. “And to buy that you overdrew your account?—No, I’ll drive home alone.”

              

 

 VII.
 
 

            Mr. Raycie did not die till nearly a year later; but New York agreed it was the affair of the pictures that had killed him.

            The day after his first and only sight of them he sent for his lawyer, and it became known that he had made a new will. Then he took to his bed with a return of the gout, and grew so rapidly worse that it was thought “only proper” to postpone the party Mrs. Raycie was to have given that autumn to inaugurate the gallery. This enabled the family to pass over in silence the question of the works of art themselves; but outside of the Raycie house, where they were never mentioned, they formed, that winter, a frequent and fruitful topic of discussion.

            Only two persons besides Mr. Raycie were known to have seen them. One was Mr. Donaldson Kent, who owed the privilege to the fact of having once been in Italy; the other, Mr. Reedy, the agent, who had unpacked the pictures. Mr. Reedy, beset by Raycie cousins and old family friends, had replied with genuine humility: “Why, the truth is, I never was taught to see any difference between one picture and another, except as regards the size of them; and these struck me as smallish…on the small side, I would say…”

            Mr. Kent was known to have unbosomed himself to Mr. Raycie with considerable frankness—he went so far, it was rumoured, as to declare that he had never seen any pictures in Italy like those brought back by Lewis, and begged to doubt if they really came from there. But in public he maintained that noncommittal attitude which passed for prudence, but proceeded only from timidity; no one ever got anything from him but the guarded statement: “The subjects are wholly inoffensive.”

            It was believed that Mr. Raycie dared not consult the Huzzards. Young John Huzzard had just brought home a Raphael; it would have been hard not to avoid comparisons which would have been too galling. Neither to them, nor to anyone else, did Mr.