His house in Howard Street, Piccadilly,
is at once a museum and an art gallery. The rooms are filled with cases
of gems, of antique jewellery, of coins and historic relics--some of
priceless value--and the walls are covered with paintings, every one of
which is a masterpiece. There is a fine collection of ancient weapons
and armour, both European and Oriental; rare books, manuscripts, papyri,
and valuable antiquities from Egypt, Assyria, Cyprus, and elsewhere. You
see, his taste is quite catholic, and his knowledge of rare and curious
things is probably greater than that of any other living man. He is
never mistaken. No forgery deceives him, and hence the great prices that
he obtains; for a work of art purchased from Isaac Loewe is a work
certified as genuine beyond all cavil."
He paused to mop his face with a silk handkerchief, and then, with the
same plaintive volubility, continued:
"My brother is unmarried. He lives for his collection, and he lives with
it. The house is not a very large one, and the collection takes up most
of it; but he keeps a suite of rooms for his own occupation, and has two
servants--a man and wife--to look after him.
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