“You can go to the devil for all I care,” said Philip, “or even to Pittsburgh!”
He saw the waiter bearing down upon him with the imitation cocktail, and moved to meet it. The millionaire, fearing the reporter would escape him, hastily changed his tone. He spoke with effective resignation.
“However, since you've learned so much,” he said, “I'll tell you the whole of it. I don't want the fact garbled, for it is of international importance. Do you know what a Velasquez is?”
“Do you?” asked Philip.
The millionaire smiled tolerantly.
“I think I do,” he said. “And to prove it, I shall tell you something that will be news to you. I have just bought a Velasquez that I am going to place in my art museum. It is worth three hundred thousand dollars.”
Philip accepted the cocktail the waiter presented. It was quite as bad as he had expected.
“Now, I shall tell you something,” he said, “that will be news to you. You are not buying a Velasquez. It is no more a Velasquez than this hair oil is a real cocktail. It is a bad copy, worth a few dollars.”
“How dare you!” shouted Faust. “Are you mad?”
The face of the German turned crimson with rage.