He kissed his fat finger-tips and gazed triumphantly at Jim.
“You see? Out of the crowd of passersby I pick the perfect and unconscious rosebud. In my temple it opens into perfect bloom. And Art is born! And I am content. You comprehend?”
Jim said that he thought he did.
“As example,” exclaimed Puma vivaciously, “while in conversation once with Mr. Sharrow, I beheld entering your office a young lady in mourning. Hah! Instantly I was all art!” Again he kissed his gloved fingers. “A face for a picture! A form for the screen! I perceive. I am convinced.... You recall the event, perhaps, Mr. Shotwell?”
“No.”
“A young lady in mourning, seated beside your desk? I believe she was buying from you a house.”
“Oh.”
“Her name––Miss Dumont––I believe.”
Jim glanced at him. “Miss Dumont is not likely to do anything of that sort,” he said.