"What is it?"
"A town or something—never mind. Look at the colour. It heartens everything."
Trafford looked at the painting with a reluctant admiration.
"It's brilliant—and impudent. He's an artist—whoever he is. He hits the thing. But—I say—how did you get it?"
"I bought it."
"Bought it! Good Lord! How much?"
"Oh! ten guineas," said Marjorie, with an affectation of ease; "it will be worth thirty in ten years' time."
Trafford's reply was to repeat: "Ten guineas!"
Their eyes met, and there was singularly little tenderness in their eyes.
"It was priced at thirteen," said Marjorie, ending a pause, and with a sinking heart.