w, with mixed sensations, that he had addressed the remark to
the Goya copy.

"Yes," he said dryly, "that's not a Goya. It's a copy. I had it painted
because it reminded me of my daughter."

"By Jove! I thought I knew the face, sir. Is she here?"

The frankness of his interest almost disarmed Soames.

"She'll be in after tea," he said. "Shall we go round the gallery?"

And Soames began that round which never tired him. He had not
anticipated much intelligence from one who had mistaken a copy for an
original, but as they passed from section to section, period to period,
he was startled by the young man's frank and relevant remarks. Natively
shrewd himself, and even sensuous beneath his mask, Soames had not
spent thirty-eight years over his one hobby without knowing something
more about pictures than their market values. He was, as it were, the
missing link between the artist and the commercial public. Art for
art's sake and all that, of course, was cant. But aesthetics and good
taste were necessary. The appreciation of enough persons of good taste
was what gave a work of art its permanent market value, or in other
words made it "a work of art." There was no real cleavage. And he was
sufficiently accustomed to sheep-like and unseeing visitors, to be
intrigued by one who did not hesitate to say of Mauve: "Good old
haystacks!" or of James Maris: "Didn't he just paint and paper 'em!
Mathew was the real swell, sir; you could dig into his surfaces!" It
was after the young man had whistled before a Whistler, with the words:
"D'you think he ever really saw a naked woman, sir?" that Soames
remarked:

"What ARE you, Mr. Mont, if I may ask?"

"I, sir? I WAS going to be a painter, but the War knocked that. Then in
the trenches, you know, I used to dream of the Stock Exchange, snug and
warm and just noisy enough. But the Peace knocked that; shares seem
off, don't they? I've only been demobbed about a year. What do you
recommend, sir?"

"Have you got money?"

"Well," answered the young man; "I've got a father, I kept him alive
during the War, so he's bound to keep me alive now. Though, of course,
there's the question whether he ought to be allowed to hang on to his
property. What do you think about that, sir?"

Soames, pale and defensive, smiled.

"The old man has fits when I tell him he may have to work yet. He's got
land, you know; it's a fatal disease."

"This is my real Goya," said Soames dryly.

"By George! He WA