“Nothing to speak of. The only collections of old paintings worth seeing in Russia are at Petersburg.”
“Sure of it?” with a pleased expression in his eyes.
“Perfectly.”
“You can’t imagine how glad I am!”—and his face testified his joy.
“Why?”
“I don’t mind telling you, seeing that you are another American. My aunt is a great admirer of old china, old furniture, and old pictures. She has plenty of money, and her house at Manayunk, Philadelphia, is just full of ’em. I’m her only nephew. But I am boring you, perhaps.”
“Not at all,” said I, really interested, and curious to know why he rejoiced over the absence of the old masters from Moscow. “Fire away.”
“Thank you. Well, you see, my aunt would give anything if she could come to Europe, and go through all the galleries that tire me so”—and he heaved a sigh. “But she’s afraid to cross the ocean. So she made me promise that I would go and see the most famous pictures of the old masters—the she-durvs, they call ’em—and describe ’em for her in my letters, the best I know how. It’s no fun, I assure you, but then she’s my aunt.”
“And you her favorite nephew” (with a smile).