Why aren't you a millionnaire, Sam, with a
gallery one hundred by fifty opening into your conservatory, and its
centre panels filled with the works of that distinguished impressionist,
John Somerset Waldo, R.A.?"
"I shall be a millionnaire before you get to be R.A.," answered Sam,
with some emphasis, "if you don't buckle down to work, old man, and
bring out what's in you--and stop spending your allowance on a lot of
things that you don't want any more than a cow wants two tails. Now,
what in the name of common-sense did you buy that lamp for which you
have just hung? It doesn't light anything, and if it did, this is a
garret, not a church. To my mind it's as much out of place here as that
brass coal-hod you've got over there would be on a cathedral altar."
"Samuel Ruggles!" cried Jack, striking a theatrical attitude, "you talk
like a pig-sticker or a coal-baron. Your soul, Samuel, is steeped in
commercialism; you know not the color that delights men's hearts nor
the line that entrances.
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