But Fourget had already looked. He was on his feet. He was bobbing from one to the other, his lean hands adjusting his glasses, his shoulders stooped, his nose thrust out. He was uttering little cries of approval.
“But this is good! It is good, then. This is first-rate. This is of an excellence!”
“They’re not for sale,” said Cartaret.
“Hein?” Fourget wheeled. “If they are not for sale, they are for what, then?”
“They—they are merely sketches, I tell you. I was trying my hand at a new method; but I find there is nothing in it.”
Fourget was unbuttoning his short frock-coat. He was reaching for his wallet.
“I tell you there is everything in it. There is the sure touch in it, the clear vision, the sympathy. There is reputation in it. In fine, there is money.”
He had the wallet out as he concluded.
“Oh,” said Fourget, the dealer in him partially overcoming the lover of art, “not much as yet; not a great deal of money. You have still a long way to go; but you have found the road, monsieur, and I want to help you on your journey. Come, now.” He nodded to the first portrait. “What do you ask for that?”