"Loan it to me, you quill-driver! No, I bought it!"
"For how much?"
"Full price--six hundred dollars. Do you suppose I'd insult Monet by
dickering for it?"
"What have you got to pay it with?" This came in a hopeless tone.
"Not a cent! What difference does that make? Samuel, you interest me.
Why is it your soul never rises above dollars and cents?"
"But, Jack--you can't take his property and----"
"I can't--can't I? _His_ property! Do you suppose Monet painted it to
please that one-eyed, double-jointed dealer, who don't know a picture
from a hole in the ground! Monet painted it for me--me, Samuel--ME--who
gets more comfort out of it than a dozen dealers--ME--and that part of
the human race who know a good thing when they see it. You don't belong
to it, Samuel. What's six hundred or six millions to do with it? It's
got no price, and never will have any price. It's a work of art,
Samuel--a work of art. That's one thing you don't understand and
never will."
"But he paid his money for it and it's not right----"
"Of course--that's the only good thing he has done--paid for it so that
it could get over here where I could just wallow in it.
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