ver, though
generally when he went to see the Dorsets it was his custom to walk.
"But what were a few shillings?" he said to himself, the prodigality of
desperation having seized upon him. In any case he could pay that, and
if he was to be ruined, what did a few shillings more or less matter?
but the discomfort of walking over those muddy roads, and arriving with
dirty boots and a worn-out aspect, mattered a great deal. He reached the
Hall at a propitious moment, when Mr. Copperhead was in the highest
good-humour. He had been taken over the place, from one end to another,
over the stables, the farm-buildings, the farm itself from end to end,
the preserves, the shrubberies, the greenhouses, everything; all of
which details he examined with an unfailing curiosity which would have
been highly flattering to the possessors if it had not been neutralized
by a strain of comment which was much less satisfactory. When Mr. May
went in, he found him in the dining-room, with Sir Robert and his
daughters standing by, clapping his wings and crowing loudly over a
picture which the Dorsets prized much. It represented a bit of vague
Italian scenery, mellow and tranquil, and was a true "Wilson," bought by
an uncle of Sir Robert's, who had been a connoisseur, from the Master
himself, in the very country where it was painted; and all these details
pleased the imagination of the family, who, though probably they would
have been but mildly delighted had they possessed the acquaintance of
the best of contemporary painters, were proud that Uncle Charles had
known Italian Wilson, and had bought a picture out of his studio. A
Hobbema or a Poussin would scarcely have pleased them as much, for the
worst of an old Master is that your friends look suspiciously upon it as
a copy; whereas Wilson is scarcely old enough or precious enough to be
copied. They were showing their picture and telling the story to the
millionnaire with an agreeable sense that, though they were not so rich,
they must, at least, have the advantage of him in this way.

"Ha!" said Mr. Copperhead, "you should see my Turner. Didn't I show you
my Turner? I don't venture to tell you, Sir Robert, what that picture
cost me. It's a sin, it is, to keep that amount of capital hanging
useless upon a bit of wall. The Wilson may be all very well. I ain't a
judge of art, and I can't give my opinion on that point, though it's a
common sort of a name, and there don't seem to be much in it; but