“I think it’s a rotten way of doing business.”
“It is always so in the East.”
His air of imperturbable finality made me feel merely foolish and fussy. I realised he had dignity in his way.
“He’s quite right,” Edmund agreed, “we’ve got to make this a little bit of the East. After all, throwing in the customs is one way of giving people the genuine article. They get a whiff of Cairo along with their purchase, and it’s well worth the money.”
“Well, I want to be the first customer anyhow. How much is this?” I asked, picking up a little Japanese netsuké in dusky ivory.
“That one I can sell for ten shillings and make a profit. This one I lose if I sell for thirty shillings.”
“But I like this one best.”
“No, it is not so good. See, it has not the signature of the artist. But it is here on this one.”
He pointed out some minute Japanese writing cut in a tiny square.
“Never buy any work of a Japanese artist without the signature. He signs only what is best—perfect.”