no doubt, from up the river. He went back to his Goya. He was still
staring at that replica of Fleur, and worrying over Winifred's news,
when his wife's voice said:

"Mr. Michael Mont, Soames. You invited him to see your pictures."

There was the cheerful young man of the Gallery off Cork Street!

"Turned up, you see, sir; I live only four miles from Pangbourne. Jolly
day, isn't it?"

Confronted with the results of his expansiveness, Soames scrutinized
his visitor. The young man's mouth was excessively large and curly--he
seemed always grinning. Why didn't he grow the rest of those idiotic
little moustaches, which made him look like a music-hall buffoon? What
on earth were young men about, deliberately lowering their class with
these tooth-brushes, or little slug whiskers? Ugh! Affected young
idiots! In other respects he was presentable, and his flannels very
clean.

"Happy to see you!" he said.

The young man, who had been turning his head from side to side, became
transfixed. "I say!" he said, "'some' picture!"

Soames saw, with mixed sensations, that he had addressed the remark to
the Goya copy.

"Yes," he said dryly, "that's not a Goya. It's a copy. I had it painted
because it reminded me of my daughter."