"Then, in Scotland, sir, we 'ave your castle of Drumlochie, sir—rocks, turrets, battlements, 'ighly grim and romantic, sir!"
"Ha!" sighed his young master, frowning at his cigar.
"Next, sir,—in Italy we find your ancient Roman villa, sir—halabaster pillows and columns, sir—very historical though a trifle wore with wars and centuries of centoorians, sir, wherefore I would humbly suggest a coat or two of paint, sir, applied beneath your very own eye, sir—"
"No, Brimberly," murmured Young R., "paint might have attractions—Italy, none!"
"Certingly not, sir, cer-tingly not! Which brings us to your schloss in Germany, sir—"
"Nor Germany! Lord, Brimberly, are there many more?"
"Ho, yes, sir, plenty!" nodded Mr, Brimberly, "your late honoured and respected father, sir, were a rare 'and at buying palaces, sir; 'e collected 'em, as you might say, like some folks collects postage starmps, sir!"
"And a collection of the one is about as useless as a collection of the other, Brimberly!"
"Why, true, sir, one man can't live in a dozen places all at once, but why not work round 'em in turn, beginning, say, at your imposing Venetian palazzo—canals, sir, gondoleers—picturesque though dampish? Or your shally in the Tyro-leen Halps, sir, or—"
"Brimberly, have the goodness to—er—shut up!"