“I am not aware,” that one said, icily, “that the authenticity of this painting is a material question. Nor have I any need of the opinion of this gentleman, whatever his qualifications. I have bid four thousand guineas, and insist that the sale proceed. If there are no further bids, the canvas is mine.”
The auctioneer shrugged, and offered Lanyard an apologetic bow. “I am sorry—” he began.
“Four thousand guineas!” snapped the prince.
Resigned, the auctioneer resumed:
“Four thousand guineas offered. Are there any more bids? Going—”
“Forty-five hundred!”
Beyond reasonable doubt the princess had spurred herself mercilessly to find sufficient courage to make this latest bid. Lanyard saw her in a rigour of despair, hoping against hope. Only too surely something in the picture, some association—heaven knew what!—was more precious to her, almost, than life, though she had gone already to the limit of her means and perhaps a bit beyond. If this bid failed, she was lost. Her anxiety was pitiful.
“Five thousand!”
In the princess something snapped: she recoiled upon herself, sat crushed, head drooping, white-gloved hands working in her lap. One detected an appealing quiver on her lips, and noted, or imagined, a suspicious brightness beneath the long dark lashes that swiftly screened her eyes. Her young bosom moved convulsively. She was beaten, near to tears.
“Five thousand guineas ... going ... going ...”