Master--see schedule--must hang it in a public gallery? There seems
something in that."

"Shall we go down to tea?" said Soames.

The young man's ears seemed to droop on his skull. 'He's not dense,'
thought Soames, following him off the premises.

Goya, with his satiric and surpassing precision, his original "line,"
and the daring of his light and shade, could have reproduced to
admiration the group assembled round Annette's tea-tray in the inglenook
below. He alone, perhaps, of painters would have done justice to the
sunlight filtering through a screen of creeper, to the lovely pallor of
brass, the old cut glasses, the thin slices of lemon in pale amber tea;
justice to Annette in her black lacey dress; there was something of the
fair Spaniard in her beauty, though it lacked the spirituality of that
rare type; to Winifred's grey-haired, corseted solidity; to Soames, of
a certain grey and flat-cheeked distinction; to the vivacious Michael
Mont, pointed in ear and eye; to Imogen, dark, luscious of glance,
growing a little stout; to Prosper Profond, with his expression as
who should say, "Well, Mr. Goya, what's the use of paintin' this small
party?" finally, to Jack Cardigan, with his shining stare and tanned
sanguinity betraying the moving principle: "I'm English, and I live to
be fit."

Curious, by the way, that Imogen, who as a girl had declared solemnly
one day at Timothy's that she would never marry a good man--they were so
dull--should have married Jack Cardigan, in whom health had so destroyed
all traces of original sin, that she might have retired to rest with ten
thousand other Englishmen without knowing the difference from the one