“Mr. Antonio Siccardi, a maker of artificial ruins. It’s a fine occupation.”
Edith raised inquiring eyes to her lover.
“I’ll explain,” he added for her benefit.
When they were on the road again, after having taken leave of their host of the moment, Edith made game of this very unusual and unheard-of occupation, and repeated in a jesting tone:
“A manufacturer of artificial ruins?”
“Exactly,” said Maurice, “for decorating parks. In the shrubbery, or near a garden bench, you put a broken column, or an unfinished archway or some clever rock work: it’s quite effective. I knew a good man in the Latin Quarter who made cobwebs for old wine bottles, and people bought them that very evening for their grand dinners.”
“And could he make much money at such work?”
“A good deal.”
“It doesn’t seem possible.”
“He told me, as a matter of fact, that all the newly rich, and there are a great many of them, people who have made money at finance or trade, were mad about his art. Their houses are brand new, and they themselves have just risen from the soil, but they must have ruins for beauty.”