“I have a sitter at three.”
“Yes, I know, but you always have a sitter. You must come—it means something to me. I’ll go and get a cab. It will not take half an hour. It is such a beautiful Stuart. There’s no doubt about it, not the slightest; only you know Mr. Morlon, he’s very exacting. He says, ‘If Mr. Gregg approves I will buy it.’ These were his very words.”
Gregg laid down his brushes. Little men like the one before him wasted his time and irritated him. It was always this way—some underhand business. Then the better side of him triumphed.
“All right!” he cried, the old sympathetic tone ringing out once more in his voice. “Never mind about the cab; I need the air and the walk will do me good; and then you know I can’t see Mr. Morlon swindled,” and he laughed merrily as he looked quizzically at the dealer.
The entrance of the distinguished painter into the gallery of the auctioneer with his quick, alert manner and erect, military bearing, the Legion of Honor in his lapel, soon attracted attention. Schenck came up and shook Gregg’s hands cordially, repeating his name aloud so that every one could hear it—especially the prospective buyers, some of whom gazed after him, remarking to their fellows, as they shielded their lips with their catalogues: “That’s Gregg!”—a name which needed no further explanation.
“I have come to look at a Stuart that Mr. Morlon wants to buy if it is genuine,” said Gregg. “Tell me what you know about it. Where did it come from?”
“I don’t know; it was left on storage and is to be sold for expenses.”
“Is it to be sold to the highest bidder?”
“No, at private sale.”