Presently Leslie came. He had an open "Stones of Venice" in his hand, and
said, "Now for those mosaics." Leslie was a business-like person, who
wasted no time. So they started on the mosaics, and did them for an hour.
Leslie said, "Good. Capital," with the sober, painstaking, conscientious
appreciation he was wont to bestow on unpurchasable excellence; and Peter
said, "How jolly," and felt glad that there were some excellences
unpurchasable even by rich Jews.

They then went to the Accademia and looked at pictures. There Leslie had
a clue to merit. "Anything on hinges, I presume," he remarked, "is worth
inspection. Only why don't they hinge _more_ of the good ones? They ought
to give us a hint; they really ought. How's a man to be sure he's on the
right tack?"

After an hour of that they went to see the prince who had the goblet.
Half an hour's conversation with him, and the goblet belonged to Leslie.
It was a glorious thing of deep blue glass and translucent enamel and
silver, with the Berovieri signature cut on it. Peter looked at it much
as he had seen a woman in the Duomo look up at her Lady's shrine, much
as Rodney had looked on the illumined reality behind the dreaming silver
world.

Peter said, "My word, suppose it broke!" It was natural that he should
think of that; things so often broke. Only that morning his gold watch
had broken, in Illuminato's active hands. Only that afternoon his
bootlace had broken, and he had had none to replace it because Caterina
had been sailing his other boots in the canal. Peter sighed over the
lovely and brittle world.