Turning, she saw a stocky man in custodian’s uniform who was addressing a group of Italians, two bareheaded women, three children between ten and fifteen, and a man. All were interested. All studied the gold shell with its dragon-shaped handle in purplish enamel. They commented, criticized, appraised, even the children pointing out excellencies to one another. When they had drifted away, Jennie turned to the kindly Irishman, who, by dint of living with beauty, had grasped its spirit, and put a hesitating question. She asked him to repeat the name of the gold-smith, pronouncing it after him till she registered it on her mind as she had that of Lady Hamilton. "Sure, there was an artist for you," the custodian went on. "The breed is dead and gone. Hot-timpered fellow, though. Had more mistresses and killed more men than you could count. Should read about him in a book he wrote himself." He looked at Jennie from the corner of an eye, accustomed to "size up" an individual here and there among the thousands who floated daily through his little domain, apparently finding in her something that merited further favors. "Are you wise to this Memling?" he asked, leading the way to a corner of the wall where hung a small portrait. "There’s only two other men in the wor-rld that could have painted that head, and that’s Holbein and Rembrandt. Memling himself never did it but just that wance." Jennie looked, registering Memling’s name. It was the head of an elderly man; so living, kindly, and humorous that she loved him. When she turned to her guide he stood with a smile of curiosity, like that of a mother showing her baby to a friend. "What d’ye say to that now?" Jennie said what she could—that it was marvelous, but that she didn’t know anything about art. Since he was so kind, she ventured, however, on another question. Did the museum contain a portrait of Lady Hamilton? He pursed up his nose. Not a good one. Not a Romney. There was one in gallery twenty-four, but it was by John Opie, of whom he had no high opinion. In comparison with Romney, he thought Opie big and coarse, but, since there was nothing better to be seen, Jennie might choose to glance at this second-rate specimen. "And I’ll tell you another thing," he went on, confidentially. "You’re not used to looking at pictures and such like, are you, now?" Jennie said she was not. "Well, then, go to gallery twenty-four. Find your Opie, which you’ll see hanging over one of the doors—and don’t look at anything else. You’ll have seen all you can absor-rb in wan day. Come back to-morrer, or anny other toime, and come straight to me. You’ll find me here, and I’ll tell you what to look at next. But don’t take more to-day than you can enjoy." He walked with her till she reached the boundary of his realm.