Vogelstein’s arrogance melted once more into fulsomeness as he said, almost forgetting his Goodnight to us, “I’m sure it’s very good of you, Mr. Morrison.”

The forms of Morrison and Vogelstein almost blocked the generous intercolumnar space as shoulder to shoulder they moved away between the yellow marble pillars and under the green and gold ceiling.  The brown leather doors swung silently behind them, and we were left together with our amazement.

“Never mind, Old Fellow,” said Brush at last.  “It’s the first time for you.  You’ll get used to it.  It’s my second time; I happened to be there, you know, when the Balaklava Coronal was sold.”

SOME REFLECTIONS ON ART COLLECTING

Morally considered, the art collector is tainted with the fourth deadly sin; pathologically, he is often afflicted by a degree of mania.  His distinguished kinsman, the connoisseur, scorns him as a kind of mercenary, or at least a manner of renegade.  I shall never forget the expression with which a great connoisseur—­who possesses one of the finest private collections in the Val d’Arno—­in speaking of a famous colleague, declared, “Oh, X——!  Why, X——­ is merely a collector.”  The implication is, of course, that the one who loves art truly and knows it thoroughly will find full satisfaction in an enjoyment devoid alike of envy or the desire of possession He is to adore all beautiful objects with a Platonic fervour to which the idea of acquisition and domestication is repugnant.  Before going into this lofty argument, I should perhaps explain the collection of my scornful friend.  He would have said:  “I see that as I put X——­ in his proper place, you look at my pictures and smile.  You have rightly divined that they are of some rarity, of a sort, in fact, for which X——­ and his kind would sell their immortal souls.  But I beg you to note that these pictures and bits of sculpture have been bought not at all for their rarity, nor even for their beauty as such, but simply because of their appropriateness as decorations for this particular villa.  They represent not my energy as a collector, nor even my zeal as a connoisseur, but simply my normal activity as a man of taste.  In this villa it happens that Italian old masters seem the proper material for decoration.  In another house or in another land you might find me employing, again solely for decorative purposes, the prints of Japan, the landscapes of the modern impressionists, the rugs of the East, or the blankets of the Arizona desert.  Free me, then, from the reproach implied in that covert leer at my Early Sienese.”  Yes, we must, I think, exclude from the ranks of the true zealots all who in any plausible fashion utilise the objects of art they buy.  Excess, the craving to possess what he apparently does not need, is the mark of your true collector.  Now these visionaries—­at least the true ones—­honour each other according to the degree of “eye” that each possesses.