"I'm sure of it. She was Sprowl's private stenographer—and he sent her away.... There are three reasons why he might have dismissed her. I've taken my choice of them."
"Did he give her a letter?"
"Oh. Then I've taken my choice, too."
"Kyte ventured to give her a letter," said Quarren. "I've heard that Kyte could be decent sometimes."
"I see."
Nothing further was said about the new book-keeper. His lordship went into the back parlour and played the piano until satiated; then mixed himself a lime julep.
That afternoon they went over the reports of the experts very carefully. From these reports and his own conclusions Quarren drafted a catalogue while Dankmere went about sticking adhesive labels on the frames, all numbered. And, as he trotted blithely about his work, he talked to himself and to the pictures:
"Here's number nine for you, old lady! If I'd had a face like that I'd have killed the artist who transferred it to canvas!... Number sixteen for you there in your armour! Somebody in Springfield will buy you for an ancestor and that's what will happen to you.... And you, too, in a bag-wig!—you'll be some rich Yankee's ancestor before you know it! That's the way you'll end, my smirking friend.... Hello! Tiens! In Gottes namen—whom have we here? Why, it's Venus!... And hot weather is no excuse for going about that way!... Listen to this, Quarren, for an impromptu patter-song—
"'Venus, dear, you ought to know
What the proper caper is—
Even Eve, who wasn't slow,
Robbed the neighbours' graperies!
Even Mænads on the go,
Fat Bacchantes in a row—
Even ladies in a show
Wear some threads of naperies!
Through the heavens planet-strewn
Where a shred of vapour is
Quickly clothes herself the Moon!
Get you to a modiste soon
Where the tissue-paper is,
Cut in fashions fit for June—
Wear 'em, dear, for draperies—— '"