three!" he exclaimed, as he passed in the hall an unpretentious-looking portrait.
"I got it years ago for a song, before they began to be bought," said Mr. Whitcomb modestly.
"And what is that stuck over the stairs? From this distance it looks suspiciously like a Velasquez. But surely that is in the Prado?"
"Aren't you confounding it with the companion picture?"
"I had no idea we had this in England."
"We have many things in England which fortunately are not matters of common knowledge. Every year they are becoming rarer, owing to that scourge of nations, the press. If you value my regard, you will forget that you have noticed it."
"Did you get that also before they began to be bought?"
"There is rather a strange story attaching to that picture."
"Ah!" exclaimed Northcote, with an anticipatory eagerness; "that is where pictures are so unlike women—they are worthless if they have no history."
"Possess your soul in patience, my friend," said the solicitor, with his rich chuckle; "the history of the lady in the blue dress is not going to be told."
"I must get a bit nearer," said the young man, with shining eyes, "Eh, she's authentic! You should be a proud man to keep that little lady under your own roof."
"As proud," said the solicitor, in his unctuous voice, "as any other Goth of a householder in his snug suburban residence. Conceive the feelings of the Huns when they overran Rome."
