ON the top floor of Grafton’s house, n Michigan Avenue, there was a room filled with what he called “the sons of the fathers”—the bad pictures and statuary come down from two generations of more or less misdirected enthusiasm for art. In old age hs father had begun the collection; forty years of dogged pursuit of good taste taught him much. Grafton completed t as soon as he came into possession. In hm a Grafton at last combined right instinct and right judgment. Although he was not yet thirty, every picture dealer of note n Amerca and Europe knew him, and he knew not only them but also a multitude of small dealers with whom he carefully kept himself unknown. He was no mere picture buyer. The pretentious plutocrats of that class excited n hm contempt—and resentment. How often had one of them destroyed, with a coarse filing of a moneybag, hs subtle plans to capture a remarkable old picture at a small price. For he was a true collector—he knew pictures, he knew where they were to be found, he knew how to le n wat patently, how to search secretly. And no small part of his pride his acquisitions came from what they represented as exhibits of hs skll as a collector. A few months before hs father ded they were n New York and went together to see the collecton of that famous plutocratic wholesale picture buyer, Henry Acton. “Do you see the young Spaniard over there?” said the father, pointing to one of the best-placed pictures n the room.
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