“Very well; but I don’t believe I shall.”
“Not a shilling over forty-five pounds, then, Mr Balm?”
“Not a shilling.”
He fancied the thing was a bluff; and in that he wronged both the expert and himself. He really coveted the print grievously; but he hardly doubted that he was safe to secure it. Nevertheless, as time went on, fears began to assail him. Supposing after all, that Desmund were right in his surmise, and that he should come to be outbidden? It would be ridiculous—an insane exaggeration of values, but—
No one who has not lusted after a particular print, book, carving, or any rare and costly work of art, nor felt in himself the processes of that mania which, beginning in a studiously qualified desire for the object, mounts swiftly through growing apprehensions of rival desires to an unqualified and reckless passion to secure it, can possibly enter into his feelings. Those grew acute with the hours; and, as the following morning wore on, neighboured on hysteria. Still he fought for sanity, held himself tight, and when the time came, obliged himself to face the dreary ordeal of lunch. In the midst, the Haronobu suddenly rose before him, stupendous, irresistible, and blocked all his field of moral vision. He must have it, he decided, at any price. He glanced at the clock, rose, snatched his hat, and, palpitating all through, rushed for the Auction room. It was packed, and he could barely gain the door. As he did so, he heard the voice of the auctioneer proclaiming Lot 40—but one step, and that the wrong way, removed from the object of his desire. The immortal print was that moment sold. Whether for rapture or despair his fate was cast.
With that recognition of the inevitable, reason, if only temporary, returned to him, and he to his office. He thought his brief dementia over, and contented himself with despatching a telegram to the expert, asking if he had been so fortunate as to acquire for him the print in question. The answer—it only arrived after an unconscionable interval—completely prostrated him.
“Regret sold at fifty.”
The world was darkened; heaven eclipsed; for the moment life itself seemed hardly worth living. The virtuoso will understand better than I can explain.
Gilead, in a state of profound depression, sought out Mr Desmund the next morning.
“You were right,” he said, “and I was a fool.” (I think he emphasised it)