I admitted the possibility, but was determined to submit the Fierienti only to the first authority among collectors.
And, at that moment, with the ringing of the telephone, the unexpected stepped in as stage manager, and gave me a protracted performance for twenty-four hours.
“I guess Dr. Prince’s ringin’ to see if we’re all right for the night,” speculated Martha, who invariably gambled upon a letter before opening it.
“Suppose you go up to town tomorrow, Enid, and consult Penwick,” came Prince’s kind voice. “We are instructed to catch opportunity by the forelock. And, if you want me to go along—”
I cruelly ignored the eager implication. I would go alone.
“Collecting becomes an unmoral science,” he went on. “Knowing your incredible enthusiasms—”
“Help! Help!” I interposed.
“—Your incredible enthusiasms, you should not take the antiques with you. Let a collector come out and value them.”
As I had a vision of starting with eight inches of Buddha and returning with five hundred cash, I demurred, but he held his point, and finally I capitulated, and for peace at any price agreed to telephone him which train to meet. In the morning, I covered the two miles to the station with the elation of the adventuress who casts her last two dollars on the roulette of the railroad, and draws a possible fare to fortune.
In the exposition building, I went from office to committee rooms, only to discover that the vice president was away for the day, and not expected to return until evening, and, having dropped forty degrees mentally, I sat at the end of a corridor, killing time upon the pretense of examining a telephone register. Three delegates, obviously wined and lunched, halted near, talking.