"This the newest one you've got?" asked the millionnaire, in the same
tone he would have used to his tailor, as he pointed to a picture of a
strip of land between sea and sky--one of those uncertain landscapes
that a man is righteously excused for hanging upside down.
"Yes," said Jack, with a grave face, "right off the ice."
Sam winced, but "His Finance" either did not hear it or supposed it was
some art-slang common to such a place.
"This another?" he inquired, fixing his glasses in place and hending
down closer to the Monet.
"No--that's out of another refrigerator," remarked Jack, carelessly--not
a smile on his face.
"Rather a neat thing," continued the Moneybags. "Looks just like a place
up in Somesbury where I was born--same old pasture. What's the price?"
"It isn't for sale," answered Jack, in a decided tone.
"Not for sale?"
"No."
"Well, I rather like it," and he bent down closer, "and, if you can fix
a figure, I might----"
"I can't fix a figure, for it isn't for sale.
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