He would sit glowering at Maud and Watkins while they held whispered conversations at the other end of the hall. Watkins was the hero. He had accepted Flugel's judgment with impudent grace. "A copy of Titian, of course," he said to me; "really, it is quite hard on poor Miss Vantweekle. People, even learned people, who don't know about such things, had better not advise.
You know Flugel's new book on the Renaissance. He's the coming young critic in art, has made a wonderful reputation the last three years, is on the Beaux Arts staff, and really knows. He is living out at Frascati. I could telegraph and have him here this afternoon, perhaps." "Well, I don't know;" his tone, however, said "Yes." "I don't care much for expert advice for specialists.
My wife took the opportunity to rub into him Flugel's remarks, which, at least, made Watkins out shady in chronology. At the station we encountered a new difficulty. The ticket collector would not let the pictures through the gate. My uncle expostulated in pure Tuscan. Watkins swore in Roman. "Give him five lire, Mr. Williams." Poor Uncle Ezra fumbled in his pocket-book for the piece of money.