"Three hundred," said Percivale coolly.
"Why, Mr. Percivale!" cried Mr. Baddeley, drawing himself up, as my husband said, with the air of one who knew a trick worth two of that, "I paid Mr. —— fifty pounds, neither more nor less, for a picture of yours yesterday—a picture, allow me to say, worth"—
He turned again to the one in question with a critical air, as if about to estimate to a fraction its value as compared with the other.
"Worth three of that, some people think," said Percivale.
"The price of this, then, joking aside, is—?"
"Three hundred pounds," answered Percivale,—I know well how quietly.
"I understood you wished to sell it," said Mr. Baddeley, beginning, for all his good nature, to look offended, as well he might.
"I do wish to sell it. I happen to be in want of money."
"Then I'll be liberal, and offer you the same I paid for the other. I'll send you a check this afternoon for fifty—with pleasure."
"You cannot have that picture under three hundred."