"What's the price of this one?"
"It's sold," answered Afghian, without lifting his eyes. And he continued to polish the topazes on his sleeve.
"And what's the price of this one?" the lady asked, pointing her white-gloved hand to a rug that I hoped to possess some day.
"Sold, also—belongs to this gentleman," he answered, pointing at me.
The two looked me over for an instant and left the store without the usual murmured apology from the dealer.
"Why did you say that the rug they wanted was sold? and why did you tell them that the other one belonged to me?"
"Because I don't want to sell them any rugs," he answered sharply.
"Why, have they not the money to pay?"
"Oh, yes, they have. They have gold enough to pave all the Avenue. I know how rich he is. But I would not sell him any of my rugs, for the same reason that you would not sell your work to serve as reading matter for a herring advertisement. As to the Turkestan rug, I was not lying. Some day, some day we will talk more about it."
I knew Afghian too well to press for further information. But it turned out he was willing himself to go on and talk without my having to urge him.