"What are they worth? I mean, what would it be worth if there was only one?"
"I don't know; I dare say I could get £400 for the single bulb."
"But if there were more they would not be worth so much? If there were five, what would they be worth?"
"Pretty well as much, very likely £300 for one bulb. Van Heigen would give a written guarantee with it not to sell another bulb to another grower."
"But he could keep the others himself?" Julia asked. "That would be eating his cake and having it too. Tell me," she said, feeling she was imitating the Patriarch when he was pleading for Sodom and Gomorrah, "if there were ten bulbs, what could you get for one."
Cross was amused by her interest. "A hundred pounds, I dare say," he said; "but I shall never have the chance. The trade will never touch those blue daffodils while they are worth having. When the old man does begin to sell them—when they are worth very little to the growers—he will sell to collectors, cranky old connoisseurs, from choice. That's what I mean when I say he doesn't understand business as business; he would rather sell his precious blue daffodils where they were what he calls 'appreciated.' He would sooner they went for a moderate price to people who would worship them, than make an enormous profit out of them."
"But the connoisseurs could sell them," Julia objected. "If I were a connoisseur and bought one when they were for sale, I could sell it to you if I liked."
"Yes, but you wouldn't," Cross said; "if you were a connoisseur you would not dream of parting with your bulb. You wouldn't have the slightest wish to make a hundred per cent. on your purchase, or two or three hundred either. Also I shouldn't buy."
"Why not?"
"I couldn't afford to have my name mixed up with the business."