"No,—the day is not fixed," said Greenleaf, thoughtfully. "You see, I was so bent upon the settlement of the difficulty, that I had not considered the practical bearing of the matter. I am too poor to marry, and I am heartsick at the prospect of waiting"—
"With the chance of another rupture."
"No,—we shall not quarrel again. But I shall go to work. I'll inundate the town with pictures; if I can't sell them myself, I will have Jews to peddle them for me."
"Hear the mercenary man! No,—go to work in earnest, but put your life into your pictures. If you can keep up your present glow, you will be warmer than Cuyp, dreamier than Claude, more imaginative than Millais."
"But the desperate long interval!"
"I don't know about that. I quite like the philosophy of Mr. Micawber, and strenuously believe in something turning up."
"What is that?" asked Greenleaf, noticing a letter on his friend's table. "It seems to be addressed to me."
"Yes,—I met a lawyer to-day, who asked me if I knew one George Greenleaf. As I did, he gave me the letter. Some dun, probably, or threat of a suit. I wouldn't open it. Don't!"
"You only make me curious. I shall open it. To-day I can defy a dun even from—What, what's this? Bullion dead?—left in his will a bequest—forty thousand—to me?"
Easelmann looked over his friend's shoulder with well-simulated astonishment.