"I think you are fairly caught, aunt Chrysophrasia," observed Paul, with a laugh.
"Who would have guessed that there was so much humor in an Israelite?" asked Chrysophrasia, with a sad intonation. "I cannot wear the saint's tea-gown, Marchetto," she continued; "otherwise I would gladly give you twenty-five pounds for it. Eight pounds for the embroidery,—no more. It is not worth so much. I even think I see a nauseous tint of magenta in the velvet."
"Twenty-four-five pounds, lady. I lose pound—your backsheesh."
How long the process of bargaining might have been protracted is uncertain. At that moment Balsamides Bey entered the shop. It appeared that he had called at the Carvels', and, being told that the party were in Stamboul, had gone straight to the Jew's shop, in the hope of finding them there. He was introduced to the professor by Paul, with a word of explanation. Marchetto's face fell as he saw the adjutant, who had a terribly acute knowledge of the value of things. Balsamides was asked to give his opinion. He examined the piece carefully.
"Where did you get it?" he asked, in Turkish.
"From the Validé Khan," answered the Jew, in the same language. "It is a genuine piece,—a hundred years old at least."
"You probably ask a pound for every year, and a backsheesh for the odd months," said the other.
"Twenty pounds," answered Marchetto, imperturbably.
"It is worth ten pounds," remarked Balsamides, in English, to Miss Dabstreak. "If you care to give that, you may buy it with a clear conscience. But he will take three weeks to think about it."
"To bargain for three weeks!" exclaimed Chrysophrasia. "Oh, no! It takes my whole energy to bargain for half an hour. The lovely thing,—those faint, mysterious shades intertwined with the dull gold and silver,—it breaks my heart!"