.. I want to speak to you." I
willingly followed him ... he wheeled on me when he had me alone.
"Do you know why we have these paintings of Gresham's hung high up there
on the wall?" he asked rhetorically, with an eloquent, upward sweep of
his arm, "it's so bums like you ... dirty tramps ... can't wipe their
feet on them."
"I am so sorry, so very sorry," I murmured, contrite.
Thinking my contrition meekness, and possibly fear of him, he went to
take me by the shoulders. I knocked his hands away promptly and quickly
stepped back, on the defensive ... all my reverence for him swallowed up
in indignation, rising at last, against his vulgar chiding.
At that moment, my widow, Mrs. Tighe, arrived ... she was weeping....
"Don't be hard on the poor boy," she pleaded ... "anyhow, it was all my
fault ... and I want to pay you for your vase ... whatever it cost."...
A momentary flicker of greed lighted the Master's eyes. But he
perceived as instantly how unmagnanimous he would appear if he accepted
a cash settlement.
"I am not thinking of my financial loss ... beauty cannot be valued that
way!" he exclaimed.
"Then you must not blame the boy."
"He is clumsy ... he is a terrible fool ... he is always doing the wrong
thing. Oh, my beautiful vase!" and he wrung his hands, lost in the pose.
Out he strode through the front door.
* * * * *
The musicale had been broken up.
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