THE GOLDEN BOWL
tic. So is his whole life over here—it's the most romantic thing I know."
"You mean his idea for his native place? "
"Yes—the collection, the Museum with which he wishes to endow it, and of which he thinks more, as you know, than of anything in the world. It's the work of his life and the motive of everything he does."
The young man, in his actual mood, could have smiled again—smiled delicately, as he had then smiled at her. "Has it been his motive in letting me have you?"
"Yes, my dear, positively—or in a manner," she had said. "American City isn't, by the way, his native town, for, though he's not old, it's a young thing compared with him—a younger one. He started there, he has a feeling about it, and the place has grown, as he says, like the programme of a charity performance. You're at any rate a part of his collection," she had explained—"one of the things that can only be got over here. You're a rarity, an object of beauty, an object of price. You're not perhaps absolutely unique, but you're so curious and eminent that there are very few others like you—you belong to a class about which everything is known. You're what they call a morceau de musée."
"I see. I have the great sign of it," he had risked—"that I cost a lot of money."
"I haven't the least idea," she had gravely answered, "what you cost"—and he had quite adored for the moment her way of saying it. He had felt even for the moment vulgar. But he had made the best of that.
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