“Why, Bob Griffin!” cried Esther. “How can you say that? You told me yourself you thought it was awfully good.”
“Well, I—I think it is pretty fair, considering who painted it; but Captain Townsend is right when he says it doesn’t do you justice. I knew that all along.”
Townsend may have thought the conversation had proceeded far enough on this line. He stepped back from before the easel and turned to the artist.
“It’s a good job, anyhow,” he vowed. “I’ll be glad to have it. Now then, young fellow, how much do you want for it? What is the price?”
Bob Griffin looked at Esther and she at him. She answered the question.
“Why, there isn’t any price,” she said. “Bob has given it to me and I am giving it to you, for your birthday present, Uncle Foster. I told you that before we came down here.”
Her uncle paid no attention to this. He jingled his change and repeated his inquiry.
“How much will it be, Griffin?” he asked.
Bob smilingly shook his head. “Esther has told you, sir,” he said. “I gave it to her. There isn’t any price.”
“Humph! That won’t do, son.... Hush, Esther!... No, that won’t do. You are figuring to earn a living at this sort of work, aren’t you?”