"Old John" at Solari's took their order—a porter-house steak with mushrooms, peas, cold asparagus, a pint of extra dry—in honor of the day, Jack insisted, although Sam protested to the verge of discourtesy—together with the usual assortment of small drinkables and long smokables—a Reina Victoria each.
On the way back to the studio the two stopped to look in a shop-window, when Jack gave a cry of delight and pressed his nose against the glass to get a better view of a small picture by Monet resting on an easel.
"By the gods, Sam!—isn't that a corker! See the way those trees are painted! Look at the air and light in it—not a value out of scale—perfectly charming!—charming," and he dived into the shop before Sam. could check him.
In a moment he was out again, shaking his head, chewing his under-lip, and taking another devouring look at the canvas.
"What do they want for it, Jack?" asked Sam—his standard of merit was always the cost of a thing.
"About half what it's worth—six hundred dollars."
"Whew!" burst out Sam; "that's nearly as much as I make in a year. I wouldn't give five dollars for it."
Jack's face was still pressed against the glass of the window, his eyes riveted on the canvas. He either did not hear or would not answer his friend's criticism.
"Buy it, Jack," Sam continued, with a laugh, the hopelessness of the purchase making him the more insistent. "Hang it under the lamp, old man—I'll pay for the candles."
"I would," said Jack, gravely and in perfect seriousness, "only the governor's allowance isn't due for a week, and the luncheon took my last cent."