“My cousin is given to generalizations. My opinion may have some weight with the committee—“
“Well, then—“ she timidly prompted.
“For that very reason I can’t buy the picture.”
She said, with a drooping note, “I don’t understand.”
“Yet you told me,” I reminded her, “that you knew museums didn’t buy unsigned pictures.”
“Not for what they are worth! Every one knows that. But I—I understood—the price you named—“ Her pride shuddered back from the abasement. “It’s a misunderstanding then,” she faltered.
To avoid looking at her, I glanced desperately at the Rembrandt. Could I—? But reason rejected the possibility. Even if the committee had been blind—and they all were but Crozier—I simply shouldn’t have dared to do it. I stood up, feeling that to cut the matter short was the only alleviation within reach.
Mrs. Fontage had summoned her indomitable smile; but its brilliancy dropped, as I opened the door, like a candle blown out by a draught.
“If there’s any one else—if you knew any one who would care to see the picture, I should be most happy—“ She kept her eyes on me, and I saw that, in her case, it hurt less than to look at the Rembrandt. “I shall have to leave here, you know,” she panted, “if nobody cares to have it—“