“If I am ever a rich man,—” Patsy began.
“Which heaven forfend—you have not the gift!” said the monsignore.
“Wait and see!—I shall build a great church.”
“Like St. Peter’s there?”
We were on the terrace. The sun was setting behind the chapel of the Vatican. There was still light enough for the yellow of the sun-soaked façade, the pale blue of the dome, to tell against the gray and rosy sky.
“Oh, make it the Parthenon! They both give a fellow the same sort of feeling as being in love does, or seeing Niagara.”
“It is not a bad use to put a fortune to,” the monsignore agreed.
“It is about time the artists had their innings!” Patsy declared. “I should like to be referee. Gladiators, prize-fighters wouldn’t be in it. What fun can there be in backing such creatures, or even a horse? I would rather stake my fortune on an architect like Bramante—trust my future reputation to a painter like Pinturricchio than to a Flying Childers or a Goldsmith Maid.”
“First catch your hare,” said the monsignore.
“The woods are full of ’em. Give the artists a chance, and you’ll see the trouble is not with them! The opportunity must come first. A country has the art it deserves. When we Americans want beauty as much as we want rapid transit we shall get it.”