"A half!—by gad! There's a good fellow!"
"No; one-third is all I'll accept."
"Oh, very well. It may amount to ten dollars—it may amount to ten thousand—and ten times that, perhaps. What?"
"Perhaps," said Quarren, smiling. "And, if you're going out, Dankmere, perhaps you had better order a sign painted—anything you like, of course. Because I'm afraid I couldn't leave these pictures here indefinitely and we might as well make plans to get rid of some of them as soon as possible."
"Right-o! I'm off to find a painter. Leave it to me, Quarren. And when the picture-hangers come, have them hung in a poor light—I mean the pictures—God knows they need it—the dimmer the light the better. What? Take care of yourself, old chap. There's money in sight, believe me!"
And the lively little Earl trotted out, swinging his stick and setting his straw hat at an angle slightly rakish.
No business came to the office that sunny afternoon; neither did the picture-hangers. And Quarren, uneasy, and not caring to leave Dankmere's ancestral collection of pictures in the back yard all night lest the cats and a possible shower knock a little superfluous antiquity into them, had just started to go out and hire somebody to help him carry the canvases into the basement, when the office door opened in his very face and Molly Wycherly came in, breezily.
"Why, Molly!" he exclaimed, surprised; "this is exceedingly nice of you——"
"Oh, Ricky, I'm glad to see you! But I don't want to buy a house or sell one or anything. I'm very unhappy—and I'm glad to see you——"
She pressed his hand with both her gloved ones; he closed the door and returned to the office; and she seated herself on top of his desk.