“Don’t smile at me like that—don’t look like that. If you knew how I’ve argued and put it all before ’em—— I’ve said a hundred times if I’ve said once, ‘Sandford! why, Sandford’s one of the best. There isn’t a better educated painter not in England. You can’t pick a hole in his pictures, try as you like.’”
“Am I indeed so much discussed?” said the victim. “I did not know I was of such importance. And on what ground have you held this discussion, Daniells? There must have been some occasion for it. I don’t see anything here of mine.”
“Look here,” cried the picture dealer, roused, “if you won’t believe me.” He opened the door of an inner room, into which Mr. Sandford followed him. And there, with their faces turned to the wall, were three pictures in a row. The shape of them gave him a faint, uneasy feeling. By this time Daniells had been wound up to self-defence, and thought of the painter’s feelings no more.
“Look ’ere,” he said, “I shouldn’t have said a word if you had let well alone—but look ’ere.” Before one of the pictures was visible Mr. Sandford knew what he was going to see. Three pictures of his own, of a kind for which he had been famous—cabinet pictures, for which there had always been the readiest market. He recognised them all with a faintness that made his brain swim and the light go from his eyes. They seemed so familiar, like children. At the first glance, without looking at them, he knew what they were and all about them, and had a sick longing that the earth would open and swallow them, and hide his shame, for so it seemed.
“If that don’t show how I’ve trusted you, nothing can,” said the dealer. “I thought they were as safe as the bank. I bought them all on spec, thinking I’d get a customer as soon as they were in the shop—and, if you’ll believe me, nobody’ll have them. I can’t tell what people are thinking of, but that’s the truth.”
Mr. Sandford stood with the light going out of his eyes, gazing straight before him. “In that case—in that case,” he began, “you should—I must——”
“I say, don’t take it like that, old man. It’s the fortune of war. One up and another down. It can’t be helped, don’t you know. Sandford, I say, why, it’ll come all right again in half-a-dozen years or so. It’ll come all right after a time.”
“What did you say?” said Mr. Sandford, dazed. Then he answered vaguely, “Oh yes; all right—all right.”
“What’s the matter? I’ve been a wretched fool. Sandford, here, I say, have a glass of wine.”
“There’s nothing the matter. It seems to me a little—cold. I know—I know it’s not a cold day; but there’s a chill wind about, penetrating—thanks, Daniells, you’ve cleared up my problem very well. Now, I think—I think I understand.”