“Too old; stuff and nonsense! You’re always a-harping on that string. He’s just the man for you, just the man,” said Daniells, rubbing his hands.
Mr. Sandford was amused—perhaps a little pleased by this encounter; and the pressure of his heavy thoughts was stilled. He began to look at the new pictures which had come into the gallery, to admire some and criticise others. Daniells had the good sense always to listen to Mr. Sandford’s criticisms with attention. They had furnished him with a great many telling phrases, and given to his own rough and practical knowledge of art a little occasional polish which surprised and overawed many of his customers. He listened admiringly now as usual.
“What a deal you do know, to be sure!” he said after a while. “I don’t know one of them that can make a thing clear like you, old man. It’s a shame——” and here he coughed and broke off, as if endeavouring to swallow his last words.
“What is a shame?” The broken sentence changed Mr. Sandford’s mood again—the momentary cheer died away. “Daniells,” he said, “I want you to tell me what you meant the other day by forcing me to accept that man’s offer. Yes, you did. I should not have let him have the picture but for you.”
“Forcing him! Oh, that’s a nice thing to say—the most obstinate fellow in all London!”
“Never mind that; I can see you are fencing. Come, why did you do it?”
Daniells paused for some time. He said a great many things to stave off his confusion, many half-things which involved others, and made his answer perhaps more clear than if he had put it directly into words.
“I see,” Mr. Sandford said at last, “you thought it very unlikely that I should sell it at all to any one who knew better.”
“It ain’t that. They don’t know half enough, hang ’em! or they wouldn’t run after a booby like Blank and neglect you.”
Mr. Sandford smiled what he felt to be a very sickly smile. “We must let Blank have his day,” he said, “I don’t grudge it him; but I’d like to know why my chances are so bad. I have always sold my pictures.”