"Quite true. I am not aware that my method is employed by the artists of to-day. Yet my method is no new thing; it is simply the revival of an idea buried in the dust of ages."
"And are you not going to reveal it?"
"And raise a crowd of imitators? Pardon me—no. None shall rob me of my laurels. If it were possible to patent my idea, I should have no hesitation in disclosing it. But the secret shall not die with me. At my death I will leave papers showing how my effects were wrought."
I attributed all this to the vanity of the artist, not knowing how much truth there was in his boasted secret.
The doctor nodded approval, as if he understood all that the artist meant. He had been walking close to Angelo all the way from the breakfast-table, listening to his utterances as though they were so many gems of wisdom that deserved to be treasured in the memory.
By this time we had entered the gallery, a magnificent hall—long, broad, and lofty. On one side only was the light admitted, and that through high and deep embrasured casements. The spaces between the windows were adorned with the family portraits all arranged in chronological order, beginning with a fearfully weird daub of Richard III.'s time, and ending with a splendid portrait of Sir Hugh.
The wall facing the windows was covered with pictures of a general character, and was penetrated at regular intervals by deep alcoves containing suits of mail and mounted knights armed cap-à-pie, illustrating various periods of English history; for the Wyvilles had been an ancient family long ere they received from the hand of Mary Stuart's son the patent of baronetcy.
We proceeded leisurely down the gallery, I listening, in shame be it written, with very little interest to the Baronet's genealogical discourse, because all my thoughts were running on Angelo's painting.
"I understood," said my uncle, turning to the artist, "that your great picture had gone to Spain, and never expected to meet it in the Abbey here."