“I’ve been thinking.”

Arthur had returned from his two-day absence, and, having eaten grapefruit, porridge with cream, and bacon and eggs, had now moved into the coda of his usual breakfast and was busy with toast and marmalade.

“I’m not at all surprised. You think quite often. What now?” said Maria.

“That life of Uncle Frank. I was wrong. We’d better tell Simon to go ahead.”

“No more worry about possible scandal?”

“No. Suppose a few drawings turn up at the National Gallery that look like Old Masters but are really by Uncle Frank? That doesn’t make him a faker. He was an art student once, in the days when a lot of them copied Old Master drawings and even drew that way themselves, just to find out how it was done. Not faking at all. The Gallery people will spot them at once, though of course Darcourt mightn’t. Nothing will come of it, you mark my words. Simon’s a literary type, not an art critic. So let’s give him the go-ahead, and get on with the real work of the Foundation. We ought to get some applications soon from needy geniuses.”

“I have a few on my desk already.”

“You call Simon, darling, and tell him I’m sorry I was arbitrary. Could he come in tonight? We could look at your letters and get on with the real job. Being patrons.”

“The modern Medici?”

“No immodesty, please. But it should be sport.”

“Blow your whistle, Arthur, and let the sport begin.”