As a practical commentary on the liberal social theory which he had just favoured me by illustrating, Mr. Fairlie’s cool request rather amused me.  I put back one drawer and gave him the other, with all possible politeness.  He began trifling with the new set of coins and the little brushes immediately; languidly looking at them and admiring them all the time he was speaking to me.

“A thousand thanks and a thousand excuses.  Do you like coins?  Yes.  So glad we have another taste in common besides our taste for Art.  Now, about the pecuniary arrangements between us—­do tell me—­are they satisfactory?”

“Most satisfactory, Mr. Fairlie.”

“So glad.  And—­what next?  Ah!  I remember.  Yes.  In reference to the consideration which you are good enough to accept for giving me the benefit of your accomplishments in art, my steward will wait on you at the end of the first week, to ascertain your wishes.  And—­what next?  Curious, is it not?  I had a great deal more to say:  and I appear to have quite forgotten it.  Do you mind touching the bell?  In that corner.  Yes.  Thank you.”

I rang; and a new servant noiselessly made his appearance—­a foreigner, with a set smile and perfectly brushed hair—­a valet every inch of him.

“Louis,” said Mr. Fairlie, dreamily dusting the tips of his fingers with one of the tiny brushes for the coins, “I made some entries in my tablettes this morning.  Find my tablettes.  A thousand pardons, Mr. Hartright, I’m afraid I bore you.”

As he wearily closed his eyes again, before I could answer, and as he did most assuredly bore me, I sat silent, and looked up at the Madonna and Child by Raphael.  In the meantime, the valet left the room, and returned shortly with a little ivory book.  Mr. Fairlie, after first relieving himself by a gentle sigh, let the book drop open with one hand, and held up the tiny brush with the other, as a sign to the servant to wait for further orders.

“Yes.  Just so!” said Mr. Fairlie, consulting the tablettes.  “Louis, take down that portfolio.”  He pointed, as he spoke, to several portfolios placed near the window, on mahogany stands.  “No.  Not the one with the green back—­that contains my Rembrandt etchings, Mr. Hartright.  Do you like etchings?  Yes?  So glad we have another taste in common.  The portfolio with the red back, Louis.  Don’t drop it!  You have no idea of the tortures I should suffer, Mr. Hartright, if Louis dropped that portfolio.  Is it safe on the chair?  Do you think it safe, Mr. Hartright?  Yes?  So glad.  Will you oblige me by looking at the drawings, if you really think they are quite safe.  Louis, go away.  What an ass you are.  Don’t you see me holding the tablettes?  Do you suppose I want to hold them?  Then why not relieve me of the tablettes without being told?  A thousand pardons, Mr. Hartright; servants are such asses, are they not?  Do tell me—­what do you think of the drawings?  They have come from a sale in a shocking state—­I thought they smelt of horrid dealers’ and brokers’ fingers when I looked at them last.  Can you undertake them?”