"And you knew that at a glance!" said his father.
"Why, yes!"
"Not many Velasquezes in America," said the father, thinking, incidentally, that his son would not have to pay the dealers a heavy toll for an art education, while he revelled in a surprise that he was evidently holding back.
"Or many better Velasquezes than this, anywhere," added Jack. "What mastery! What a gift from heaven that was vouchsafed to a human being to paint like that!"
He was in a spell, held no less by the painter's art than by the subject.
"Absolutely a certified Velasquez, bought from the estate of Count Galting," continued his father. "I paid a cool two hundred and fifty thousand for it. And that isn't all, Jack, that isn't all that you are going to drudge for as an apprentice in the delivery department. I know what I am talking about. I wasn't fooled by any of the genealogists who manufacture ancestors. I had it all looked up by four experts, checking one off against another."
"Yes," answered Jack, absently. He had hardly heard his father's words. In fervent scrutiny he was leaning forward, his weight on the ball of the foot, the attitude of the man in the picture.
"And who do you think he is—who?" pursued John Wingfield, Sr.
"A man who fought face to face with the enemy; a man whom men followed!
Velasquez caught all that!" answered Jack.
"That old fellow was a great man in his day—a great Englishman—and his name was John Wingfield! He was your ancestor and mine!"