“I think it needs touching up a little.”
Another pause, then:
“Do you know, I believe I won’t let this go just yet. I want to go over it once more. You know, I can send your friend something else next winter,—something that he may like better. And if he doesn’t like it, why, he can return it.”
“But, Mr. Whistler, he wants this little marine. There is not much to do upon it, is there?”
“No—o; but, then, you see——”
“Well, why not give it the last touches now, and let him have it. If you do not send him this, I am afraid he will never have one of your pictures.”
“Oh, yes, he will; next winter——”
“But next winter others will come in when we are not here, and buy from you whatever you have.”
“Well, we will see.”
And only persistent urgings, day after day, even after a draft on London had been forced upon him, induced him to ship the painting.