“George,” said he, with considerable solemnity, “like myself you have grown old in the love of art.”
George’s assent was of the gruffest. Cheriton was going to be a bore as usual.
“You remember that Gainsborough of Caroline Crewkerne’s?”
“Ye-es,” said George. “I offered her twenty thousand pounds for it for the Cheadle Collection.”
“Did you, though! Well, mind you don’t renew the offer. The refusal of it was promised to me in Crewkerne’s lifetime.”
George began to gobble furiously. He looked as though he wanted to call some one a liar.
“Well, it’s too soon to quarrel over it,” said Cheriton, pacifically, “because she doesn’t intend to part with it to anybody at present.”
“She’s a perverse old woman,” said George, “and age don’t improve her.”
“I mentioned her Gainsborough,” said Cheriton, who was on the rack of his own enthusiasm, “because a very odd thing has happened. The original of that picture has found her way into Hill Street.”
“What! Grandmother Dorset!” said George, contemptuously. “Why, she’s been in her grave a hundred years.”