Yet the collection of paintings was unworthy of such disdain. The pictures were few, but all were signed with great names, most of them Italian, a few Dutch, Flemish, or German. I began to work systematically through them, pleased at the want of a catalogue and the small number of inscriptions on the frames. To be your own guide doubles your pleasure; you can get your impression of a picture entirely at first hand; you are filled with admiration without any one having told you that you are bound to go into ecstasies. You can work out for yourself from a picture, by induction and comparison, its subject, its school, and its author, unless it proclaims, in every stroke of the brush, “I am a Hobbema,” “a Perugino,” or “a Giotto.” I was somewhat distracted, however, by the voice of the old numismatist, as he peered into the cases, and constrained his daughter to share in the exuberance of his learned enthusiasm. “Jeanne, look at this; crowned head of Cleopatra, Mark Antony on the reverse; in perfect condition, isn’t it? See, an Italian ‘as-Iguvium Umbriae’, which my friend Pousselot has sought these thirty years! Oh, my dear, this is important: Annius Verus on the reverse of Commodus, both as children, a rare example--yet not as rare as--Jeanne, you must engrave this gold medal in your heart, it is priceless: head of Augustus with laurel, Diana walking on the reverse. You ought to take an interest in her. Diana the fair huntress. “This collection is heavenly! Wait a minute; we shall soon come to the Annia Faustina.” Jeanne made no objection, but smiled softly upon the Cleopatra, the Umbrian ‘as’, and the fair huntress. Little by little her father’s enthusiasm expanded over the vast collection of treasures. He took out his pocketbook and began to make notes. Jeanne raised her eyes to the walls, took one glance, then a second, and, not being called back to the medals, stepped softly up to the picture at which I had begun. She went quickly from one to another having evidently no more than a child’s untutored taste for pictures. As I, on the contrary, was getting on very slowly, she was bound to overtake me. You may be sure I took no steps to prevent it, and so in a very short time we were both standing before the same picture, a portrait of Holbein the younger. A subject of conversation was ready to hand. “Mademoiselle,” said I, “do you like this Holbein?” “You must admit, sir, that the old gentleman is exceedingly plain.”