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“You have been very generous, Mr. Watkins,” he said, in his own sweet way, “to do such an unpleasant job. It’s a large draft to make on the kindness of a friend.”

“Oh, don’t mention it, Mr. Williams; and if you want to buy something really fine, a Van Dyck print–a—-“

Uncle Ezra was shooing him toward the door. From the stairs we could still hear his voice. “Or a Whistler etching for twenty-five pounds, I could get you, now, a very fine—-“

“No, thank you, Mr. Watkins,” Uncle Ezra said, firmly. “I don’t believe I have any money just now for such an investment.”

My wife tiptoed about the room, making faces at the exposed masterpieces. “What shall we do?” Uncle Ezra came back into the room, his face a trifle grayer and more worn. “Capital fellow, that Watkins,” he said; “so firm and frank.”

“Uncle,” I ventured at random, “I met Flugel the other day in the street. You know Flugel’s new book on the Renaissance. He’s the coming young critic in art, has made a wonderful reputation the last three years, is on the Beaux Arts staff, and really knows. He is living out at Frascati. I could telegraph and have him here this afternoon, perhaps.”

“Well, I don’t know;” his tone, however, said “Yes.” “I don’t care much for expert advice–for specialists. But it wouldn’t do any harm to hear what he has to say. And Maud and Painter have made up their minds that Maud’s is a Titian.”

So I ran out and sent off the despatch. My wife took Uncle Ezra down to the Forum and attempted to console him with the ugliness of genuine antiquity, while I waited for Flugel. He came in a tremendous hurry, his little, muddy eyes winking hard behind gold spectacles.

“Ah, yes,” he began to paw the pictures over as if they were live stock, “that was bought for a Bonifazio,” he had picked up Maud’s ruby-colored prize. “Of course, of course, it’s a copy, an old copy, of Titian’s picture, No. 3,405, in the National Gallery at London. There is a replica in the Villa Ludovisi here at Rome. It’s a stupid copy, some alterations, all for the bad–worthless–well, not to the antichita, for it must be 1590, I should say. But worthless for us and in bad condition. I wouldn’t give cinque lire for it.”

“And the Bissola?” I said. “Oh, that was done in the seventeenth century–it would make good kindling. But this,” he turned away from Painter’s picture with a gesture of contempt, “this is Domenico Tintoretto fast enough, at least what hasn’t been stippled over and painted out. St. Agnes’s leg here is entire, and that tree in the background is original. A damn bad man, but there are traces of his slop work. Perhaps the hair is by him, too. Well, good-by, old fellow; I must be off to dinner.”

That was slight consolation; a leg, a tree, and some wisps of hair in a picture three feet six by four feet eight. Our dinner that evening was labored. The next morning Uncle Ezra packed his three treasures tenderly, putting in cotton-wool at the edges, my wife helping him to make them comfortable. We urged him to stay over with us for a few days; we would all go on later to Venice. But Uncle Ezra seemed moved by some hidden cause. Back he would trot at once. “Painter will want his picture,” he said, “he has been waiting on in Venice just for this, and I must not keep him.” Watkins turned up as we were getting into the cab to see Uncle Ezra off, and insisted upon accompanying us to the station. My wife took the opportunity to rub into him Flugel’s remarks, which, at least, made Watkins out shady in chronology. At the station we encountered a new difficulty. The ticket collector would not let the pictures through the gate. My uncle expostulated in pure Tuscan. Watkins swore in Roman.