As he wearily closed his eyes again, before I could answer, and as he did most assuredly bore me, I sat silent, and looked up at the Madonna and Child by Raphael. In the meantime, the valet left the room, and returned shortly with a little ivory book. Mr Fairlie, after first relieving himself by a gentle sigh, let the book drop open with one hand, and held up the tiny brush with the other, as a sign to the servant to wait for further orders.
‘Yes. rust so!' said Mr Fairlie, consulting the tablettes. ‘Louis, take down that portfolio.' He pointed, as he spoke, to several portfolios placed near the window, on mahogany stands. ‘No. Not the one with the green back -- that contains my Rembrandt etchings, Mr Hartright. Do you like etchings?
Yes? So glad we have another taste in common. The portfolio with the red back, Louis. Don't drop it! You have no idea of the tortures I should suffer, Mr Hartright, if Louis dropped that portfolio, Is it safe on the chair?
Do you think it safe, Mr Hartright? Yes? So glad. Will you oblige me by looking at the drawings, if you really think they are quite safe. Louis, go away. What an ass you are. Don't you see me holding the tablettes? Do you suppose I want to hold them? Then why not relieve me of the tablettes without being told? A thousand pardons, Mr Hartright; servants are such asses, are they not? Do tell me -- what do you think of the drawings? They have come from a sale in a shocking state -- I thought they smelt of horrid dealers' and brokers' fingers when I looked at them last. Can you undertake them?'
Although my nerves were not delicate enough to detect the odour of plebeian fingers which had offended Mr Fairlie's nostrils, my taste was sufficiently educated to enable me to appreciate the value of the drawings, while I turned them over. They were, for the most part, really fine specimens of English water-colour art; and they had deserved much better treatment at the hands of their former possessor than they appeared to have received.
‘The drawings,' I answered, ‘require careful straining and mounting; and, in my opinion, they are well worth --'
‘I beg your pardon,' interposed Mr Fairlie. ‘Do you mind my closing my eyes while you speak? Even this light is too much for them. Yes?'
‘l was about to say that the drawings are well worth all the time and trouble --'
Mr Fairlie suddenly opened his eyes again, and rolled them with an expression of helpless alarm in the direction of the window.
‘I entreat you to excuse me, Mr Hartright,' he said in a feeble flutter.
‘But surely I hear some horrid children in the garden -- my private garden -- below?'
‘I can't say, Mr Fairlie. I heard nothing myself.'
‘Oblige me -- you have been so very good in humouring my poor nerves -- oblige me by lifting up a corner of the blind. Don't let the sun in on me, Mr Hartright! Have you got the blind up? Yes? Then will you be so very kind as to look into the garden and make quite sure?'
I complied with this new request. The garden was carefully walled in, all round. Not a human creature, large or small, appeared in any part of the sacred seclusion. I reported that gratifying fact to Mr Fairlie.
‘A thousand thanks. My fancy, I suppose. There are no children, thank Heaven, in the house; but the servants (persons born without nerves) will encourage the children from the village. Such brats -- oh, dear me, such brats! Shall I confess it, Mr Hartright? -- I sadly want a reform in the construction of children. Nature's only idea seems to be to make them machines for the production of incessant noise. Surely our delightful Raffaello's conception is infinitely preferable?'
He pointed to the picture of the Madonna, the upper part of which represented the conventional cherubs of Italian Art, celestially Provided with sitting accommodation for their chins, on balloons of buff-coloured cloud.
