Charles Templeton breakfasted in his study on the ground floor. The door was open and Richard saw him there, reading his Times, at home among his six so judiciously chosen pieces of chinoiserie, his three admirable pictures, his few distinguished chairs and lovely desk. Charles was fastidious about his surroundings and extremely knowledgeable. He could wait, sometimes for years, for the acquisition of a single treasure.

Richard went in. “Charles!” he said. “How are you?’

“Hullo, old boy. Come to make your devotions?”

“Am I the first?”

“The first in person. There are the usual massive offerings in kind. Mary’ll be delighted to see you.”

“I’ll go up,” Richard said, but still hovered. Charles lowered his newspaper. How often, Richard wondered, had he seen him make that gesture, dropping his eyeglass and vaguely smiling. Richard, still involved in the aftermath of his moment of truth, if that was its real nature, asked himself what he knew of Charles. How used he was to that even courtesy, that disengagement! What of Charles in other places? What of the reputedly implacable man of affairs who had built his own fortune? Or of the lover Charles must have been five and twenty years ago? Impossible to imagine, Richard thought, looking vaguely at an empty niche in the wall.

He said, “Hullo! Where’s the T’ang musician?”

“Gone,” Charles said.

“Gone! Where! Not broken?”

“Chipped. The peg of her lute. Gracefield did it, I think. I’ve given her to Maurice Warrender.”

“But — even so — I mean, so often they’re not absolutely perfect and you — it was your treasure.”

“Not now,” Charles said. “I’m a perfectionist, you know.”

“That’s what you say!” Richard exclaimed warmly. “But I bet it was because Maurice always coveted her. You’re so absurdly generous.”