He never liked this satirical mood into which he sometimes drove me. He hesitated an instant, and then bid, “Three hundred.”
“This reminds me of Faust,” I remarked; but he was too intent on the matter in hand to see the point.
“I suppose it’s only a question of amount?” he suggested blandly.
“You are quite right, Mr. Whitely. I will write you that review if you will pay me my price,” I assented.
“I knew it,” he asserted exultingly. “But you are mistaken if you think I will pay any fancy price.”
“Then it’s a waste of time to talk any more about it,” I answered, and resumed my work.
“It isn’t worth three hundred, even,” he argued, “but you may tell me what you will do it for.”
“I will write that review for one hundred and twenty-one thousand dollars,” I replied.
“What!”
“And from that price I will not abate one cent,” I added.