"That's nothing; merely age. It's Welsh," he added, "and a beauty. I wish I could get hold of more like it. Look at those legs; I'll guarantee you won't——Excuse me, Sir."
An immaculately dressed individual had entered the shop, and the gentleman trading as Smalley called an assistant to serve him. By the time he returned to me I had wandered far into the recesses of the emporium and was busily examining a walnut stool with a woolwork seat.
"You haven't one like this in oak, I suppose? This one," I said, "would hardly suite my suit. That sounds wrong, but you apprehend my meaning."
"I haven't," he said simply. I could see that he was tiring rapidly, but wasn't absolutely ripe for plucking.
So I priced about a dozen pieces of china, admired several pictures and pieces of Stuart needlework, descanted on the beauties of a set of wheatear chairs, pulled a small rosewood table about until its claw and ball feet nearly dropped off from exhaustion, and finally led him back to the Welsh dresser.
"What's the price of the Scotsman?" I said easily, having seen thirty guineas on the ticket during the preliminary examination.
"Twenty-nine pounds to you," he said wearily. He evidently knew the strict rules of the game.
"But look at those legs," I said. "They're frightfully bent, aren't they?"
"That's one of the best features about it," he said. "Real Queen Anne, those legs are."
"Oh, were hers like that? I didn't know," I said. "Look here, I'll give you twenty-eight pounds, spot cash."