“A little less noise in Judaea, if you please,” said the auctioneer, who had now recovered from the blow. “Lot 97.”
This was a very pretty marqueterie cabinet; it stood against the wall, and Rosa had set her heart upon it. Nobody would bid. She had muzzled the auctioneer effectually.
“Your own price.”
“Two pounds,” said Rosa.
A dealer offered guineas; and it advanced slowly to four pounds and half a crown, at which it was about to be knocked down to Rosa, when suddenly a new bidder arose in the broker Rosa had rejected. They bid slowly and sturdily against each other, until a line was given to Rosa from Uncle Philip.
“This time it is your own friend, the snipe-nosed woman. She telegraphed a broker.”
Rosa read, and crushed the note. “Six guineas,” said she.
“Six-ten.”
“Seven.”
“Seven-ten.”