AT GIBRALTAR EN ROUTE 13 



grandfather of the Victorian era could grandfather 

 properly. What sort of a house would it have been, 

 think you, for imaginative grandchildren to visit if 

 your grandparents had not stood possessed of some 

 of those deep, dark, mysterious oil-paintings which 

 meant so much and told so Uttle ? 



We paused in front of a large " work," its quarter- 

 yard wide of frame shining in the hght. I gazed into 

 its inky cavernous depths with tender reminiscent 

 interest. There was just such another at Grannie's, 

 just as black, just as elusive, just as 



" You are admiring my picture," said our host com- 

 placently, trying to keep back the pride of ownership 

 in his voice. " A wonderful thing, isn't it ? " 



" A remarkable canvas ! " I answered diplomatically. 

 And, of course, it was. The expanse of surface, divulg- 

 ing nothing, seemed unusually excellent. You know 

 how full of ruts and cracks they so often are. 



" Of the Impressionist school, I imagine ? " put in 

 Cecily, trying to appear artistically knowing. 



" A Velasquez, I think, or perhaps a Rubens, or 

 Rembrandt," said the proud owner, with large-hearted 

 indifference. " You never can tell with these old 

 unsigned pictures. I am sure it is very, very valuable. 

 Any duffer can see how priceless it must be. An artist 

 who saw it last week said it really might be anything. 

 Since then I've been wondering if it could be, by any 

 chance, an early Veronese." 



He could trace back the existence of the painting 

 for considerably over two hundred years, and that 

 alone, judging by the mellowing standard which seems 



