“You’re sure it’s thirty?” repeated the painter.

“Yes, sir, thirty,” and she crept back and laid the rule in O’Day’s hand.

“Thank you, my dear young lady,” bowed the old gnome.  “It is a pleasure to be served by one so obliging and bright.  And I am glad to tell you,” he added, turning to O’Day, “that it’s a fit—­an exact fit.  I thought I was about right.  I carry things in my eye.  I bought a head once in Venice, about a foot square, and in Spain three months afterward, on my way down the hill leading from the Alhambra to the town, there on a wall outside a bric-a-brac shop hung a frame which I bought for ten francs, and when I got to Paris and put them together, I’ll be hanged if they didn’t fit as if they had been made for each other.”

“And I know the shop!” broke out Felix, to Masie’s astonishment.  “It’s just before you get to the small chapel on the left.”

“By cracky, you’re right!  How long since you were there?”

“Oh, some five years now.”

“Picking up things to sell here, I suppose.  Spain used to be a great place for furniture and stuffs; I’ve 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.”

“And your name?”

“O’Day.”

“Irish, of course—­well, all the same, come down any morning this week.  My name is Ganger; I’m on the fourth floor—­been there twenty-two years.  You’ll have to walk up—­we all do.  Yes, I’ll expect you.”