"The old people don't relish the idea. She is the most beautiful girl in New York."
"I've seen her! Pippinissima!" exclaimed Andrew Barrett, heartfully.
"Ten millions," said Hendrik Rutgers, calmly.
"My God!" whispered young Mr. Barrett, New-Yorker.
He meant what he said.
Ten millions!
Mr. Onthemaker, Andrew Barrett, and their faithful phalanx of star space men who always signed their stuff called in a body on La Touche, the photographer of the moment.
He refused to give them Miss Goodchild's photograph. He wished his name used, of course, but he was too sensible to disregard professional ethics.
"Mr. Rutgers said we could get it," said Andrew Barrett, sternly.
"I must have her permission. Hang it, boys, I am just as anxious as you—as I can be to do what I can for you. But I don't dare. These swell people are queer!" the photographer explained, aggrievedly.