Paul Quentin by Fred M. White — Read

Bassano lay back comfortably in his chair smoking his cigarette with zest. It appeared to be the one part of the lunch which he really enjoyed. He intimated that he would be ready to begin in about half an hour, and Lord Passmore nodded approvingly. He had a few letters to write, he said, and his guest and Bassano might like to be alone together. They went off presently to a room which had been set apart in the top of the house for the Italian. In the middle of the room was a long table on trestles which was littered from end to end with materials and pigments of various kinds. There were unfamiliar tools, the uses of which were incomprehensible to Dugdale, and two boxes of oil and colour paints with a variety of brushes lay one on top of the other. In the centre of the table was the magnificent porringer upon which Bassano was engaged. He had been fixing a new handle, the burnishing of which was just complete. With something like a smile of triumph upon his face he handed it to Dugdale.

"One of the handles has been broken off," he said, "and got lost. Now will you be good enough to examine the chasing? Observe, too, the wonderful trueness of the casting. Ah, there were artists and men of honour in those days; they did not scamp their work as people do now. There are not four men alive who could turn out a porringer like this. Now, Mr Dugdale, will you be good enough to tell me which is the original handle and which the one that I have just fitted?"