“Ay, but I don't want you to be ignorant,” said Billy, earnestly; “and there's no greater mistake than supposing that knowledge is an impediment to the play of fancy. Take my word for it, Master Charles, imagination, no more than any one else, does not work best in the dark.” “I certainly am no adept under such circumstances,” said the boy. “I have n't told you what happened me in the studio last night. I went in without a candle, and, trying to grope my way to the table, I overturned the large olive jar, full of clay, against my Niobe, and smashed her to atoms.” “Smashed Niobe!” cried Billy, in horror. “In pieces. I stood over her sadder than ever she felt herself, and I have not had the courage to enter the studio since.” “Come, come, let us see if she couldn't be restored,” said Billy, rising. “Let us go down there together.” “You may, if you have any fancy,--there's the key,” said the boy. “I 'll return there no more till the rubbish be cleared away.” And so saying, he moved off, and was soon out of sight. Deeply grieving over this disaster, Billy Traynor hastened from the spot, but he had only reached the garden of the Chiaja when he heard a faint, weak voice calling him by his name; he turned, and saw Sir Horace Upton, who, seated in a sort of portable arm-chair, was enjoying the fresh air from the sea. “Quite a piece of good fortune to meet you, Doctor,” said he, smiling; “neither you nor your pupil have been near me for ten days or more.” “'Tis our own loss then, your Excellency,” said Billy, bowing; “even a chance few minutes in your company is like whetting the intellectual razor,--I feel myself sharper for the whole day after.” “Then why not come oftener, man? Are you afraid of wearing the steel all away?” “'T is more afraid I am of gapping the fine edge of your Excellency by contact with my own ruggedness,” said Billy, obsequiously. “You were intended for a courtier, Doctor,” said Sir Horace, smiling. “If there was such a thing as a court fool nowadays, I'd look for the place.” “The age is too dull for such a functionary. They'll not find ten men in any country of Europe equal to the office,” said Sir Horace. “One has only to see how lamentably dull are the journals dedicated to wit and drollery, to admit this fact; though written by many hands, how rare it is to chance upon what provokes a laugh. You 'll have fifty metaphysicians anywhere before you 'll hit on one Molière. Will you kindly open that umbrella for me? This autumnal sun, they say, gives sunstroke. And now what do you think of this boy? He'll not make a diplomatist, that's clear.” “He 'll not make anything,--just for one simple reason, because he could be whatever he pleased.” “An intellectual spendthrift,” sighed Sir Horace “What a hopeless bankruptcy it leads to!”