OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN 



come: she takes the edge off the Padrona's fury). "I 

 don't know how it happened, I'm sure. It came to 



pieces " 



<Oh, let us stay our pen ! Every owner of precious bric- 

 a-brac knows the awful sound of those words, and the 

 futility of resentment.) 



The Master of the Villino had a teapot. Of yellow Can- 

 tagalli pottery it was, with quaint adornments like cater- 

 pillars all over it / it had a snake handle and a long curving 

 spout. He loved it. He never wanted to have his tea out 

 of any other vessel. One morning a stranger sat in its 

 place. He rang the bell severely. One of the nomad 

 footmen, who appear, and camp, and go away, answered it. 

 " My teapot/' 

 <Yes, it was broken.) 



" It came to pieces in your hand, I suppose ? " said the 

 master sarcastically. 



The injured expression of the misjudged became painted on 

 John's face : 



" No, sir," he said with much dignity, " it shut itself in 

 the door!" 



Loki has had a bath, out of due season, because his own 

 artist has come down from London to 

 limn his imperial splendours for his 

 -* own book. We tried to make him 

 understand that it is only smug 

 nouveaux riches who imagine they can patronize art / that, 

 on the contrary, it is Art which condescends to us. He 

 put on his most Chinese face and became a crocodile on 

 222 



