“Well?” he said irritably.
“Whelan gave £7,500. He’s a hard nut, you know.”
“That’ll do now, MacTavish. I want you to go and call at this place, have a look at the pictures, and report.”
Mr. MacTavish lost no time in calling at Mrs. Stillwell’s house. She was out, but had left a note for the gentleman from Mr. Ringsmith’s, asking him to look at the pictures, and expressing her regret that she could not show them to him herself. She was quite unable, she said, to decide upon a price, which she left entirely to Mr. Ringsmith.
A few days later Mrs. Stillwell was writing to her boy at the Front when Mr. MacTavish was announced. She is a slight, refined, gentle-looking little lady, and rose from her chair with some embarrassment. She had never had anything to do with gentlemen like Mr. MacTavish before, and hardly knew whether she ought to shake hands with him or not; but she did so with a gracious and slightly deprecating air. She felt she was under an obligation to him for giving him so much trouble, and she disliked very much being compelled to talk to him about selling her pictures.
“Won’t you have a cup of tea, Mr. MacTavish?” she asked, not knowing exactly what to say.
The tall Scotsman declined politely, and came straight to business.
“I’ve talked the matter over with Mr. Ringsmith, Mrs. Stillwell, and if
you’re agreeable I am prepared to buy the three pictures for the firm.”