What, then, is the very most ultimate price?
Properly, the very most ultimate price is so much. (Say, the smallest trifle under the price first asked.)
The purchaser moves toward the door. He comes back, and offers one third of the very most ultimate price.
The shopman, with a gentle desperation, declares that the thing cost him as much. He cannot really take the offer. He regrets, but he cannot. That the gentleman would say something more! So much—for example. That he regard the stuff, its quality, fashion, beauty.
The gentleman laughs him to scorn. Ah, heigh! and, coming forward, he picks up the article and reviles it. Out of the mode, old, fragile, ugly of its kind. The shopman defends his wares. There is no such quantity and quality elsewhere in Venice. But if the gentleman will give even so much (still something preposterous), he may have it, though truly its sale for that money is utter ruin.
The shopper walks straight to the door. The shopman calls him back from the threshold, or sends his boy to call him back from the street.
Let him accommodate himself—which is to say, take the thing at his own price.
He takes it.
The shopman says cheerfully, “Servo suo!”
The purchaser responds, “Bon dì! Patron!” (Good day! my Master!)