“Well—partly. Yes, partly. But I’m afraid I was thinking how well it is done.” His face grew dreamy. “To think that paint and canvas and a few careless strokes—”
“He worked putty hard,” broke in Uncle William. Sergia’s hand on his arm stayed him. He remained open-mouthed, staring at his blunder.
But the Frenchman had not perceived it. He accepted the correction with a cordial nod. “Of course—infinite patience. And then a thing like that!” he lifted his hand toward it slowly. It was a kind of courteous salute—the obeisance due to royalty.
Uncle William watched it a little grudgingly. “They’re putty good rocks,” he said—“without paint.”
The Frenchman faced him. “Don’t I know?” He checked himself. “I’ve not mentioned it to you, but I was born and brought up on those rocks.”
“You was!” Uncle William confronted him.
The stranger nodded, smiling affably. His long nose was reminiscent. “I’ve played there many a time.”
Sergia’s face watched him hopefully.
Uncle William’s had grown a little stern. He bent toward the stranger. “I don’t think I jest caught your name,” he said slowly.
“My name is Curie,” said the man, politely—“Benjamin F. Curie.” He extracted a card from his pocket and handed it to Uncle William with a deep bow.