Lewis saw that he had at last struck the right note. Something large and uncomfortable appeared to struggle in Mr. Raycie’s throat; then he gave a cough which might almost have been said to cast out Sassoferrato.
There was another pause before he pointed with his stick to a small picture representing a snub-nosed young woman with a high forehead and jewelled coif, against a background of delicately interwoven columbines. “Is that,” he questioned, “your Carlo Dolce? The style is much the same, I see; but it seems to me lacking in his peculiar sentiment.”
“Oh, but it’s not a Carlo Dolce: it’s a Piero della Francesca, sir!” burst in triumph from the trembling Lewis.
His father sternly faced him. “It’s a copy, you mean? I thought so!”
“No, no; not a copy; it’s by a great painter ... a much greater....”
Mr. Raycie had reddened sharply at his mistake. To conceal his natural annoyance he assumed a still more silken manner. “In that case,” he said, “I think I should like to see the inferior painters first. Where is the Carlo Dolce?”
“There is no Carlo Dolce,” said Lewis, white to the lips.
The young man’s next distinct recollection was of standing, he knew not how long afterward, before the armchair in which his father had sunk down, almost as white and shaken as himself.
“This,” stammered Mr. Raycie, “this is going to bring back my gout....” But when Lewis entreated: “Oh, sir, do let us drive back quietly to the country, and give me a chance later to explain ... to put my case” ... the old gentleman had struck through the pleading with a furious wave of his stick.
“Explain later? Put your case later? It’s just what I insist upon your doing here and now!” And Mr. Raycie added hoarsely, and as if in actual physical anguish: “I understand that young John Huzzard returned from Rome last week with a Raphael.”