Charles the Fifth pick up Titian's brush for him.
Do you mind putting this tray of coins back in the
cabinet, and giving me the next one to it? In the
wretched state of my nerves, exertion of any
kind is unspeakably disagreeable to me.  Yes.
Thank you."

As a practical commentary on the liberal
social theory which he had just favoured me by
illustrating, Mr. Fairlie's cool request rather
amused me.  I put back one drawer and gave
him the other, with all possible politeness.  He
began trifling with the new set of coins and the
little brushes immediately; languidly looking
at them and admiring them all the time he was
speaking to me.

"A thousand thanks and a thousand excuses.
Do you like coins?  Yes.  So glad we have
another taste in common besides our taste for
Art. Now, about the pecuniary arrangements
between us—do tell me—are they
satisfactory?"

"Most satisfactory, Mr. Fairlie."

"So glad. And—what next? Ah!  I remember.
Yes?  In reference to the consideration
which you are good enough to accept for
giving me the benefit of your accomplishments
in art, my steward will wait on you at the end
of the first week, to ascertain your wishes. And
—what next?  Curious, is it not?  I had a
great deal more to say; and I appear to have quite
forgotten it. Do you mind touching the bell?
In that corner.  Yes. Thank you."

I rang; and a new servant noiselessly made
his appearance—a foreigner, with a set smile
and perfectly brushed hair—a valet every inch
of him.

"Louis," said Mr. Fairlie, dreamily dusting
the tips of his fingers with one of the tiny
brushes for the coins, "I made some entries in
my tablettes this morning.  Find my tablettes.
A thousand pardons, Mr. Hartright.  I'm afraid
I bore you."

As he wearily closed his eyes again, before I
could answer, and as he did most assuredly bore
me, I sat silent, and looked up at the Madonna
and Child by Raphael.  In the mean time, the
valet left the room, and returned shortly with a
little ivory book. Mr. Fairlie, after first relieving
himself by a gentle sigh, let the book drop
open with one hand, and held up the tiny brush
with the other, as a sign to the servant to wait
for further orders.

"Yes. Just so!" said Mr. Fairlie, consulting
the tablettes.  "Louis, take down that
portfolio."  He pointed, as he spoke, to several
portfolios placed near the window, on mahogany
stands.  "No. Not the one with the green
back—that contains my Rembrandt etchings,
Mr. Hartright.  Do you like etchings?  Yes?
So glad we have another taste in common. The
portfolio with the red back, Louis.  Don't drop
it!  You have no idea of the tortures I should
suffer, Mr. Hartright, if Louis dropped that
portfolio.  Is it safe on the chair?  Do you
think it safe, Mr. Hartright?  Yes?  So glad.
Will you oblige me by looking at the drawings,
if you really think they're quite safe.  Louis, go
away.  What an ass you are.  Don't you see
me holding the tablettes?  Do you suppose I
want to hold them?  Then why not relieve me
of the tablettes without being told? A thousand
pardons, Mr. Hartright; servants are such
asses, are they not?  Do tell me—what do you
think of the drawings? They have come from
a sale in a shocking state—I thought they
smelt of horrid dealers' and brokers' fingers
when I looked at them last.  Can you undertake
them?"

Although my nerves were not delicate enough
to detect the odour of plebeian fingers which had
offended Mr. Fairlie's nostrils, my taste was
sufficiently educated to enable me to appreciate
the value of the drawings, while I turned
them over. They were, for the most part, really
fine specimens of English water-colour Art; and
they had deserved much better treatment at the
hands of their former possessor than they
appeared to have received.

"The drawings," I answered, "require careful
straining and mounting; and, in my opinion,
they are well worth——"

"I beg your pardon," interposed Mr. Fairlie.
''Do you mind my closing my eyes while you
speak?  Even this light is too much for them.
Yes?"

"I was about to say that the drawings are
well worth all the time and trouble——"

Mr. Fairlie suddenly opened his eyes again,
and rolled them with an expression of helpless
alarm in the direction of the window.

"I entreat you to excuse me, Mr. Hartright,"
lie said, in a feeble flutter.  "But surely I hear
some horrid children in the garden—my private
garden—below?"

"I can't say, Mr. Fairlie. I heard nothing
myself."

"Oblige me—you have been so very good in
humouring my poor nerves—oblige me by lifting
up a corner of the blind.  Don't let the sun in on
me, Mr. Hartright!  Have you got the blind
up?  Yes?  Then will you be so very kind as
to look into the garden and make quite sure?"

I complied with this new request.  The garden
was carefully walled in, all round.  Not a human
creature, large or small, appeared in any part of
the sacred seclusion.  I reported that gratifying
fact to Mr. Fairlie.

"A thousand thanks.  My fancy, I suppose.
There are no children, thank Heaven, in the
house; but the servants (persons born without
nerves) will encourage the children from the
village.  Such brats—oh, dear me, such brats!
Shall I confess it, Mr. Hartright?—I sadly want
a reform in the construction of children.
Nature's only idea seems to be to make them
machines for the production of incessant noise.
Surely our delightful Raffaello's conception is
infinitely preferable?"

He pointed to the picture of the Madonna,
the upper part of which represented the
conventional cherubs of Italian Art, celestially
provided with sitting accommodation for their chins,
on balloons of buff-coloured cloud.

"Quite a model family!" said Mr. Fairlie,