got a lot of them still--bought a whole chest of embroideries
once in Seville, or rather, at that hospital
where the big Murillo hangs. You must know that
picture--Moses striking water from the rock--best
thing Murillo ever did."

Felix remembered it, and he also remembered many
of the important pictures in the Prado, especially the
great Velasquez and the two Goyas, and that head of
Ribera which hung on the line in the second gallery on
the right as you entered. And before the two enthusiasts
were aware of what was going on around
them, Masie and Fudge had slipped off to dine upstairs
with her father, Felix and the garrulous old
painter still talking--renewing their memories with a
gusto and delight unknown to the old artist for
years.

"And now about that frame!" the gnome at last
found time to say. "I've got so little money that
I'd rather swap something for it, if you don't mind.
Come down and see my stuff! It's only in 10th
Street--not twenty minutes' walk. Maybe you can
sell some of my things for me. And bring that blessed
little girl--she's the dearest, sweetest thing I've seen
for an age. Your daughter?"

Felix laughed gently. "No, I wish she were. She
is Mr. Kling's child."