Then, too, his mind had long since invaded a future which day by day grew more alluring in its suggestions. He himself would learn the practical and manual art of restoration--learn how to clean, reline, revarnish; how to identify, how to dissect. Every thread of an ancient canvas should tell him a true story; every grain in an old panel. He would be chief surgeon in his hospital for old and decrepit masterpieces; he would "cradle" with his own hands--clear the opacity from time-dimmed beauty with savant touch, knit up tenderly the wounds of ages---- "Dankmere," he said, throwing away his cigarette, "I'm going into this business from this minute; and I would like to die in harness, at the end, the companion, surgeon, and friend of old-time pictures. Do you think I can make a living at it?" "God knows. Do you mean that you're really keen on it?" "Dead keen." Dankmere puffed on his cigar: "A chap usually makes out pretty well when he's a bit keen on anything of sorts. You'll be owning the gallery, next, you infernal Yankee!" Quarren laughed: "I won't forget that you gave me my first real chance in the world. You've done it, too; do you realise it, Dankmere?" "Very glad I'm sure." "So am I!" said Quarren with sudden emphasis. "I believe I'm on the right track now. I believe it's in me--in my heart--to work--to _work_!"--he laughed--"as the old chronicles say, 'To the glory of God and the happiness of self and mankind.' ... I'm grateful to you; do you understand?" "Awf'lly glad, old chap." "You funny Englishman--I believe you are.... And we'll make this thing go. Down comes my real-estate shingle; I'm a part of the Dankmere Galleries now. I'll rent the basement after our first sale and there you and I will fuss and tinker and doctor and nurse any poor old derelict of a picture back to its pristine beauty. What?" "Not I," said the little Earl. "All I'm good for is to furnish the initial stock. You may do what you please with it, and we'll share profits according to contract. Further than that, Quarren, you'll have to count me out." "Don't you care for pictures?" "I prefer horses," said the Earl drily--"and, after the stable and kennel, my taste inclines toward Vaudeville." And he cocked up one little leg over the other and whistled industriously at a waltz which he was attempting to compose. He possessed a high, maddening, soprano whistle which Quarren found painful to endure; and he was glad when his lordship departed, jauntily twirling his walking-stick and taking fancy dance steps as far as the front door. Left alone Quarren leaned back in his chair resting his head against the new olive-tinted velvet. He had nothing to do but sit there and gaze at the pictures and wait for an answer to his telegram. It came about dusk and he lighted the gas to read it: "Come up to Witch-Hollow to-morrow. "MARIE WYCHERLY."