“Why didn’t you say who you were at first?”
“I didn’t like to. I—I remembered you had advised me not to come to England.”
“Well, the mischief was done; you might just as well have spoken. I might have given you some advice.... You could have had the engraving at trade price.... If you are looking for etchings, or any little things for your rooms, I couldn’t dream of treating you like a stranger.”
“Thank you,” said Matt, with feeble fervency.
“Don’t mention it,” said his uncle, holding up his right palm deprecatingly. “By-the-way, what made you address your letter to the National Gallery?”
Matt colored. “I thought all the London painters lived there,” he said, with an uneasy smile.
Madame laughed heartily. “Why, Matthew only got it through an official inquiring among the people copying pictures there. One of them happened to be a customer of ours, and suggested trying us.”
“Yes, it was all boyish foolishness,” said Matt.
“And where are you living, now that you have come?” said his uncle.
“Not far from here—in Holborn.” He added, hastily, for fear his uncle might be meditating a visit: “I can bring you some of my work if you like.”