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“I can’t see why he is coming to Rome,” Watkins commented at the end. “If they are confident that they know all about their pictures, and don’t care anyway who did them, and are having all this spiritual love-feast, what in the world do they want any expert criticism of their text for? Now for such people to buy pictures, when they haven’t a mint of money! Why don’t they buy something within their means really fine–a coin, a Van Dyck print? I could get your uncle a Whistler etching for twenty-five pounds; a really fine thing, you know–“

This was Watkins’s hobby.

“Oh, well, it won’t be bad in the end of the hall at New York; it’s as dark as pitch there; and then Uncle Ezra can leave it to the Metropolitan as a Giorgione. It will give the critics something to do. And I suppose that in coming on here he has in mind to get an indorsement for his picture that will give it a commercial value. He’s canny, is my Uncle Ezra, and he likes to gamble too, like the rest of us. If he should draw a prize, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to brag of.”

Watkins called again the next morning.

“Have you seen Uncle Ezra?” my wife asked, anxiously.

“No. Three telegrams. Train was delayed–I suppose by the importance of the works of art it’s bringing on.”

“When do you expect him?”

“About noon.”

“Mr. Watkins,” my wife flamed out, “I believe you are just shirking it, to meet that poor old man with his pictures. You ought to have been at the station, or at least at the hotel. Why, it’s twelve now!”

Watkins hung his head.

“I believe you are a coward,” my wife went on. “Just think of his arriving there, all excitement over his pictures, and finding you gone!”

“Well, well,” I said, soothingly, “it’s no use to trot off now, Watkins; stay to breakfast. He will be in shortly. When he finds you are out at the hotel he will come straight on here, I am willing to bet.”

Watkins looked relieved at my suggestion.

“I believe you meant to run away all along,” my wife continued, severely, “and to come here for refuge.”

Watkins sulked.

We waited in suspense, straining our ears to hear the sound of a cab stopping in the street. At last one did pull up. My wife made no pretence of indifference, but hurried to the window.

“It’s Uncle Ezra, with a big, black bundle. John, run down–No! there’s a facchino.”

We looked at each other and laughed.

“The three!”

Our patron of art came in, with a warm, gentle smile, his tall, thin figure a little bent with the fatigue of the journey, his beard a little grayer and dustier than usual, and his hands all a-tremble with nervous impatience and excitement. He had never been as tremulous before an opinion from the Supreme Court. My wife began to purr over him soothingly; Watkins looked sheepish; I hurried them all off to breakfast.

The omelette was not half eaten before Uncle Ezra jumped up, and began unstrapping the oil-cloth covering to the pictures. There was consternation at the table. My wife endeavored soothingly to bring Uncle Ezra’s interest back to breakfast, but he was not to be fooled. My Uncle Ezra was a courageous man.

“Of course you fellows,” he said, smiling at Watkins, in his suave fashion, “are just whetting your knives for me, I know. That’s right. I want to know the worst, the hardest things you can say. You can’t destroy the intrinsic worth of the pictures for us; I have lived with mine too long, and know how precious it is!”

At last the three pictures were tipped up against the wall, and the Madonnas and saints in gold, red, and blue were beaming out insipidly at us. Uncle Ezra affected indifference. Watkins continued with the omelette. “We’ll look them over after breakfast,” he said, severely, thus getting us out of the hole temporarily.