The next day, after business hours, Sam, in the goodness of his heart, called to comfort Jack over the loss of the Monet—a loss as real to the painter as if he had once possessed it—he had in that first glance through the window-pane; every line and tone and brush-mark was his own. So great was Sam's sympathy for Jack, and his interest in the matter, that he had called upon a real millionaire and had made an appointment for him to come to Jack's studio that same afternoon, in the hope that he would leave part of his wealth behind him in exchange for one of Jack's masterpieces.
Sam found Jack flat on the floor, his back supported by a cushion propped against the divan. He was gloating over a small picture, its frame tilted back on the upright of his easel. It was the Monet!
"Did he loan it to you, old man?" Sam inquired.
"Loan it to me, you quill-driver! No, I bought it!"
"For how much?"
"Full price—six hundred dollars. Do you suppose I'd insult Monet by dickering for it?"
"What have you got to pay it with?" This came in a hopeless tone.
"Not a cent! What difference does that make? Samuel, you interest me. Why is it your soul never rises above dollars and cents?"
"But, Jack—you can't take his property and——"
"I can't—can't I? His property! Do you suppose Monet painted it to please that one-eyed, double-jointed dealer, who don't know a picture from a hole in the ground! Monet painted it for me—me, Samuel—ME—who gets more comfort out of it than a dozen dealers—ME—and that part of the human race who know a good thing when they see it. You don't belong to it, Samuel. What's six hundred or six millions to do with it? It's got no price, and never will have any price. It's a work of art, Samuel—a work of art. That's one thing you don't understand and never will."