“Tom didn’t leave anything except the property, which goes to the boy; he’s at the Front. There are the two girls to provide for. I advised her to sell the pictures long ago, but she couldn’t bear to part with them. Now, with new taxation and so on, she feels she must. It’s a bad time for selling, isn’t it, Stephen?”
“The worst.”
“What do you advise?”
“I never advise; people must make up their minds for themselves.” Then, as though it were an after-thought: “What sort of pictures are they?”
“There are a Corot, a Mauve, and a Daubigny, I believe. The Corot is said to be a particularly good one.”
“Um—what does she want for them?”
“I don’t think poor Mary has any idea about the price; she asked me, but there’s one thing I won’t do, and that’s to be mixed up in an art deal—”
Ringsmith’s eyes flashed; he flicked the ash off his cigar angrily.
“Mixed up—art deal! Then why the devil do you come to me?”
Peter Knott smiled at him benignly.