He coughed slightly, as if apologising for bringing this last point before the notice of the company.
The conversation now took an ecclesiastical turn under Florrie's lead, and we were soon discussing such topics as the decorations, Christmas carols, and the anthem to be sung at the service in the morning.
"Well," said the Baronet, giving the signal for rising, "suppose before setting off for the church you spend an hour in the picture-gallery, and view my latest addition to it."
Expressions of delighted assent arose.
"When I tell you that the addition I allude to is the great masterpiece of Mr. Vasari," he added with a gracious wave of his hand towards the artist, "the masterpiece that set all Paris talking last summer, we shall require no other reason for visiting the gallery at once."
Remembering Angelo's curious dealings with regard to his famous work of art, I thought to see him betray some little confusion when it was mentioned by the Baronet. He manifested no such embarrassment, however, but gravely bowed his acknowledgments; and Sir Hugh led the way from the breakfast-table. The artist and curate each offered an arm to escort Florrie. Preference was given to Art, and Ecclesiasticism retired confounded.
"I shall put myself under your guidance," said Florrie, taking Angelo's arm. "You must be my cicerone, and point out the beauties of the picture for me. I haven't seen it yet, you know."
"The beauties? You do me too much honour. Say the defects, rather."
"Very well, the defects, then," said the irrepressible Florrie. "I daresay that sounds uncomplimentary, but it isn't meant to be so. I'm no connoisseur, and what you artists consider defects I may consider beauties, and what you know to be beauties I may think defects. I never go into an art-gallery and become enraptured with some sweet interesting painting without being told by some frowning critic that it is a very mediocre performance, worth nothing at all. But if I come to some ugly daub, whose perspective is all at fault and whose figures are so comically drawn that I feel tempted to laugh, I am told that I must reverence and adore because it is a Cimabue or a Fra Angelico. I am deficient in taste, I suppose. What is the title of your picture, Mr. Vasari?"
"I have entitled it 'The Fall of Cæsar,'" replied the artist, a little confounded, I thought, at the idea that there should be any one in existence ignorant of the title of his famous work.