“Well, God damn it, I never heard of one of their names before, either; no more’n of these painters of yours here. I supplied you with the names of all the advisers you needed, and all the painters, too; I all but made the collection for you myself, before you started.... I was explicit enough, in all conscience, wasn’t I?”
Lewis smiled faintly. “That’s what I hoped the pictures would be....”
“What? Be what? What’d you mean?”
“Be explicit.... Speak for themselves ... make you see that their painters are already superseding some of the better-known....”
Mr. Raycie gave an awful laugh. “They are, are they? In whose estimation? Your friends’, I suppose. What’s the name, again, of that fellow you met in Italy, who picked ’em out for you?”
“Ruskin—John Ruskin,” said Lewis.
Mr. Raycie’s laugh, prolonged, gathered up into itself a fresh shower of expletives. “Ruskin—Ruskin—just plain John Ruskin, eh? And who is this great John Ruskin, who sets God A’mighty right in his judgments? Who’d you say John Ruskin’s father was, now?”
“A respected wine-merchant in London, sir.”
Mr. Raycie ceased to laugh: he looked at his son with an expression of unutterable disgust.
“Retail?”