“Frankly,” said Gilead, who had recovered his self-possession, “I don’t quite know. My object was to find out what you did.”
“O! was it?” said the dealer, with a violently derisive emphasis. “Jest so.”
“There’s a skin there,” said Gilead, “which answers exactly to the description of the one you most require.”
“So I see,” said the dealer.
“Only it’s not old?”
“Only it’s not old.”
“Well, I suppose there’s a virtue in antiquity.”
“Don’t you know there is, being a toff?”
“I confess,” said Gilead, “that mangy plumes excite no emotion in me.”
“You’d understand their use, maybe, if you was curator to a perishing museum,” answered the dealer.