“I believe they have a nice place,” said I. “Isn't there a fountain that came from the Villa Borghese? I am greatly interested in that sort of thing.”
“You must mean the one with the mermaids,” said he.
“I dare say that is the one,” said I.
“If you go in for things like that you should certainly see it,” he cried. “Let me see how I can manage it.”
“You are very kind,” said I. “But I could not think of bothering you in the matter. I dare say that some day I shall have a chance——”
“I have it,” he cried. “The family are going away for a fortnight at Easter, and when they are gone I could easily show you over the grounds. I'll just make sure of the day they leave, so that there may be no mistake.”
In spite of a promise of such lavish hospitality, I resisted the temptation of being shown over the grounds in the way that was proposed: the fact being that I had no confidence in my own ability to act the part of the housekeeper's nephew or the second footman's uncle who are admitted to the great house when the family are away.
I trust, however, that I convinced the enterprising cousin of the great house that I fully appreciated his spirited offer to allow me a peep at the Borghese fountain through a chink in the back door, as it were.
I learned subsequently that the great family started in a tannery in Mallingham a hundred and twenty years ago. It was no wonder that any one in my station of life could only be expected to approach their demesne by a back way.