Meanwhile Miklos, perceiving that his patron was irretrievably landed and considering that his own “expert” dignity had been sufficiently saved, relaxed into enthusiasm and small talk. Only in the later Italian rooms did his critical claws again allow themselves to scratch. A small Leonardo, the treasure of the house, which had been examined and written about by every European student of Milanese art for half a century, was suavely pronounced— “A Da Predis, of course, but a very nice one!” A Bellini became a Rondinelli; and the names of a dozen obscure, and lately discovered painters, freely applied to the Tintorets, Mantegnas and Cimas on the walls, produced such an effect on Herr Schwarz that he sat down open-mouthed on the central ottoman, staring first at the pictures and then at the speaker; not knowing whether to believe or to doubt. Falloden stood a little apart, listening, a smile on his handsome mouth. “We should know nothing about Rondinelli,” said Miklos at last, sweetly—“but for the great Bode—” “_Ach_, Bode!” said Herr Schwarz, nodding his head in complacent recognition at the name of the already famous assistant-director of the Berlin Museum. Falloden laughed. “Dr. Bode was here last year. He told my father he thought the Bellini was one of the finest in existence.” Miklos changed countenance slightly. “Bode perhaps is a trifle credulous,” he said in an offended tone. But he went back again to the Bellini and examined it closely. Falloden, without waiting for his second thoughts, took Herr Schwarz into the dining-room. At the sight of the six masterpieces hanging on its walls, the Bremen ship-owner again lost his head. What miraculous good-fortune had brought him, ahead of all his rivals, into this still unravaged hive? He ran from side to side,—he grew red, perspiring, inarticulate. At last he sank down on a chair in front of the Titian, and when Miklos approached, delicately suggesting that the picture, though certainly fine, showed traces of one of the later pupils, possibly Molari, in certain parts, Herr Schwarz waved him aside. “_Nein, nein!_—Hold your tongue, my dear sir! Here must I judge for myself.” Then looking up to Falloden who stood beside him, smiling, almost reconciled to the vulgar, greedy little man by his collapse, he said abruptly— “How much, Mr. Falloden, for your father’s collection?” “You desire to buy the whole of it?” said Falloden coolly. “I desire to buy everything that I have seen,” said Herr Schwarz, breathing quickly. “Your solicitors gave me a list of sixty-five pictures. No, no, Miklos, go away!”—he waved his expert aside impatiently. “Those were the pictures on the ground floor,” said Falloden. “You have seen them all. You had better make your offer in writing, and I will take it to my father.”