There are things," she had gone on, "that father puts away--the bigger and more cumbrous of course, which he stores, has already stored in masses, here and in Paris, in Italy, in Spain, in warehouses, vaults, banks, safes, wonderful secret places.

We've been like a pair of pirates--positively stage pirates, the sort who wink at each other and say 'Ha-ha!' when they come to where their treasure is buried.

Ours is buried pretty well everywhere--except what we like to see, what we travel with and have about us.

These, the smaller pieces, are the things we take out and arrange as we can, to make the hotels we stay at and the houses we hire a little less ugly.

Of course it's a danger, and we have to keep watch.
But father loves a fine piece, loves, as he says, the good of it, and it's for the company of some of his things that he's willing to run his risks.