"G-guess I'm willin' to pay you full as much as it's worth," said Jethro, producing a cowhide wallet. "Er—what figure do you allow it comes to with the frame?"
The artist was past taking offence, since Jethro had long ago become for him an engrossing study.
"I will send you the bill for the frame, Mr. Bass," he said, "the picture belongs to Cynthia."
"Earn your livin' by paintin', don't you—earn your livin'?"
The painter smiled a little bitterly.
"No," he said, "if I did, I shouldn't be—alive. Mr. Bass, have you ever done anything the pleasure of doing which was pay enough, and to spare?"
Jethro looked at him, and something very like admiration came into the face that was normally expressionless.
He put up his wallet a little awkwardly, and held out his hand more awkwardly.
"You be more of a feller than I thought for," he said, and strode off through the drizzle toward Coniston. The painter walked slowly to the kitchen, where Chester Perkins and his wife were sitting down to supper.
"Jethro got a mortgage on you, too?" asked Chester.