[They go out, feeling that the picture is satisfactorily accounted for.
The P. P. (before a small canvas). Yes, this is the right thing at last. The paper doesn't seem to put it out in the least, and the sort of subject, you know, that no one can object to. I've quite fallen in love with it. I don't care what it costs—I positively must have it. I'm sure the wife will be as fond of it as I am. I only hope it's not sold—here, let's go and see.
[They go.
At the Secretary's Table.
The P. P. (turning over the priced Catalogue). Ah, here it is! It's unsold—it's marked down at—(his face falls)—eleven—eleven—that's rather over my limit. (To his Friend.) Do you mind waiting while I try the paper on it once more? (His Friend consents; the P. P. returning, after an interval.) No, I had my doubts from the beginning—it won't do, after all!
His Friend. But I thought you said the paper didn't put it out?
The P. P. It doesn't—but the picture takes all the shine out of the paper.
His Friend. I suppose you couldn't very well change the paper—eh?
The P. P. Change the paper?—when it's only been up a week, and cost seven-and-six the piece! My dear fellow, what are you talking about? No, no—I must see if I can't get a picture to match it at Maple's, that's all.