“Yes, I am,” he answered, “and you are Mr. Byrd that he wrote to me about. I'd hoped you weren't coming, after all. Well,” and he waved his hand, “you see how it is.”
Stefan was completely dismayed. “Why,” he stammered, “I thought you were so successful—”
“I'm sorry.” Jensen dropped his eyes, picking nervously at his coat. “You see, I am the eldest brother; a man does not like to admit failure. I may be sold up any time now. I wanted Adolph not to guess, so I—wrote—him—differently.” He flushed painfully again. Stefan was silent, too taken aback for speech.
“I tell you, Mr. Byrd,” Jensen stammered on, striking his hands together impotently, “for all its wealth, this is a city of dead hopes. It's been a long fight, but it's over now.... Yes, you are Adolph's friend, and I can't so much as buy a sketch from you. It's quite, quite over.” And suddenly he sank his head in his hands, while Stefan stood, infinitely embarrassed, clutching his roll of canvases. After a moment Jensen, mastering himself, lifted his head. His lined, prematurely old face showed an expression at once pleading and dignified.
“I didn't dream what I wrote would do any harm, Mr. Byrd, but now of course you will have to explain to Adolph—?”
Stefan, moved to sympathy, held out his hand.
“Look here, Jensen, you've put me in an awful hole, worse than you know. But why should I say anything? Let Adolph think we're both millionaires,” and he grinned ruefully.
Jensen straightened and took the proffered hand in one that trembled. “Thank you,” he said, and his eyes glistened. “I'm grateful. If there were only something I could do—”
“Well, give me the names of some dealers,” said Stefan, to whom scenes were exquisitely embarrassing, anxious to be gone.
Jensen wrote several names on a smudged half sheet of paper. “These are the best. Try them. My introduction wouldn't help, I'm afraid,” bitterly.