A familiar acquaintance, a really good fellow, decent, rich, "born of pious parents," and determined to have all the ready-made refinements and tastes that pure money could buy, came and sat with me at my lunch table.
"I wonder," he began, "if you know where you are, or what you're here for. I've been watching you for five minutes and I don't believe you do. See here; what sort of an old donkey is that bird-stuffer of yours?"
"You know, then, his good fortune of yesterday, do you?"
"No, I don't. I know my bad fortune with him last week."
I dropped my spoon into my soup. "Why, what?"
"Oh, no great shakes. Only, I went to his place to buy that wild turkey you told me about. I wanted to stand it away up on top of that beautiful old carved buffet I picked up in England last year. I was fully prepared to buy it on your say-so, but, all the same, I saw its merits the moment I set eyes on it. It has but one fault; did you notice that? I don't believe you did. I pointed it out to him."
"You pointed—what did he say?"
"He said I was right."
"Why, what was the fault?"
"Fault? Why, the perspective is bad; not exactly bad, but poor; lacks richness and rhythm."