On the way back to the studio the two stopped to look in a shop-window,
when Jack gave a cry of delight and pressed his nose against the glass
to get a better view of a small picture by Monet resting on an easel.
"By the gods, Sam!--isn't that a corker! See the way those trees are
painted! Look at the air and light in it--not a value out of
scale--perfectly charming!--_charming_," and he dived into the shop
before Sam. could check him.
In a moment he was out again, shaking his head, chewing his under-lip,
and taking another devouring look at the canvas.
"What do they want for it, Jack?" asked Sam--his standard of merit was
always the cost of a thing.
"About half what it's worth--six hundred dollars."
"Whew!" burst out Sam; "that's nearly as much as I make in a year. I
wouldn't give five dollars for it."
Jack's face was still pressed against the glass of the window, his eyes
riveted on the canvas. He either did not hear or would not answer his
friend's criticism.
"Buy it, Jack," Sam continued, with a laugh, the hopelessness of the
purchase making him the more insistent.
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