me, as I looked, a sudden vision of the young
English gentleman who, eighty years ago, had travelled by slow stages to
Italy and been waited on at his inn by persuasive toymen. "What is it,
my dear man?" I asked. "Are you unwell?"

He uncovered his haggard face and showed me the flush of a consciousness
sharper, I think, to myself than to him. "A memory of the past!
There comes back to me a china vase that used to stand on the parlour
mantel-shelf when I was a boy, with a portrait of General Jackson
painted on one side and a bunch of flowers on the other. How long do you
suppose that majolica has been in the family?"

"A long time probably. It was brought hither in the last century, into
old, old England, out of old, old Italy, by some contemporary dandy with
a taste for foreign gimcracks. Here it has stood for a hundred years,
keeping its clear firm hues in this quiet light that has never sought to
advertise it."

Searle sprang to his feet. "I say, for mercy's sake, take me away! I
can't stand this sort of thing. Before I know it I shall do something
scandalous. I shall steal some of their infernal crockery. I shall
proclaim my identity and assert my rights. I shall go blubbering to Miss
Searle and ask her in pity's name to 'put me up.'"

If he could ever have been said to threaten complications he rather
visibly did so now. I began to regret my officious presentation of
his name and prepared without delay to lead him out of the house. We
overtook the housekeeper in the last room of the series, a small unused
boudoir over whose chimney-piece hung a portrait of a young man in a
powdered wig and a brocaded waistcoat. I was struck with his resemblance
to my companion while our guide introduced him. "This is Mr. Clement
Searle, Mr. Searle's great-uncle, by Sir Joshua Reynolds. He died young,
poor gentleman; he perished at sea, going to America."

"He was the young buck who brought the majolica out of Italy," I
supplemented.

"Indeed, sir, I believe he did," said the housekeeper without wonder.

"He's the image of you, my dear Searle," I further observed.

"He's remarkably like the gentleman, saving his presence," said the
housekeeper.

My friend stood staring. "Clement Searle--at sea--going to America--?"
he broke out. Then with some sharpness to our old woman: "Why the devil
did he go to America?"

"Why indeed, sir? You may well ask. I believe he had kinsfolk there. It
was for them to come to him."

Searle