"I thought the government could force the sale of these things?"
"There has been some litigation over this property, consequently the government can do nothing till the courts have settled the matter," recited O'Mally glibly.
"Oh."
The quintet consulted their guide-books, but before they had located the paragraph referring to this work, O'Mally was cunningly leading them on to the Della Robbias which hung in the ruined pavilion. With a grand yet familiar air he declaimed over the marvelous beauties of this peculiar clay with an eloquence which was little short of masterful. He passed on to the antique marbles, touching them lightly and explaining how this one was Nero's, that one Caligula's, that one Tiberius'. He lied so easily and gracefully that, wherever it rested, the tomb of Ananias must have rocked. And whenever his victims tried to compare his statements with those in the guide-books, he was extolling some other treasure. They finally put the guide-books under their arms and trusted in the kindness of Providence.
"Do you know," said the woman who had not yet spoken, "you speak English remarkably well? There is an accent I do not quite understand."
O'Mally shivered for a moment. Was she going to spring Dago on him? "I am Italian," he said easily. "I was born, however, in County Clare. My father and mother were immigrants to Ireland." His face was as solemn as an owl's.
"That explains it."
O'Mally took a new lease of life. "Now let me show you the Hadrian mosaic, from the Villa Hadrian in Tivoli, out of Rome." He swept back the sand. "Is it not magnificent?"
"Looks like a linoleum pattern," was the comment of one of the men.
"You are not far from right," said O'Mally. "It was from this very mosaic that the American linoleums were originally designed."