We have made this little inn our headquarters in the
Tyrol chiefly out of love for the old church yonder."

Mr. Perry glanced contemptuously across the Platz at the
frowning gray building, and sat down with his back to it.

"Art, eh? Well, I've no doubt I could soon catch on to
Art, if I turned my mind that way. It pays, too,--Art.
Not the fellows who paint, but the connoisseurs. There's
Miller from our town. He was a drummer for a candy
firm. Had an eye for color. Well, he buys pictures now
for Americans who want galleries in their houses. He
bought his whole collection for Stout--the great dealer
in hams. Why, Miller can tell the money value within
five dollars, at sight, of any picture in Europe. He's
safe, too. Never invests in pictures that aren't sure to
go up in price. Getting rich! And began as a candy
drummer! No, ma'am! Art's no mystery. I've never taken
it up myself. Europe is sheer pleasure to me. I get the
best out of it. I know where to lodge well, and I can
tell you where the famous plats are cooked, and I have my
coats built by Toole. The house pays me a salary which
justifies me in humoring my little follies," stroking his
red beard complacently.

Lucy's chubby face and steady blue eyes were turned on
him thoughtfully, and presently, when they sauntered down
the windy street together, he talked and she still
silently watched him.