“You are quite correct in that presumption,” retorted Conkling, a little tired of being treated like an urchin caught in a cherry tree.
“Otherwise you would have respected the long-established wishes of the owner of this garden,” concluded his enemy, with a glance at the No Trespassing sign.
“Undoubtedly, if I’d known in time,” admitted the intruder.
The woman in the half mittens shifted her position a little.
“Since you paint, I suppose you are interested in paintings,” she suggested.
Along that glacial frontier Conkling thought he detected certain surface meltings, certain vague trickles of surrendering austerities.
“That is my business,” he admitted.
“What is?” she demanded, not unaware of the impatience in his tone.
“Paintings and old furniture and objets d’art in general,” he told her. “That’s what I go about appraising and buying up for the New York expert who is foolish enough to trust such matters to my judgment.”
She was plainly puzzled by his ironic note of levity.