question.

"I presume likely," he said, "that that picture cost consider'ble more
than fifteen, hey?"

"Father paid twenty-two thousand dollars for it," was the crushing
answer.

The captain looked at her, opened his mouth to speak, shut it again,
and, rising, walked across the room. Adjusting his glasses, he inspected
the Corot in silence for a few minutes. Then he drew a long breath.

"Well!" he sighed. "WELL." Then, after an interval, "Was this the only
one he ever painted?"

"The only one? The only picture Corot painted? Of course not! There are
many more."

"Did--did this Corot feller get as much for every job as he did for
this?"

"I presume so. I know father considered this one a bargain."

"Did, hey? Humph! I ought to know enough by this time not to believe all
I hear, but I kind of had an idea that picture paintin' was starvation
work. I've read about artists committin' suicide, and livin' in attics,
and such. Whew! About two such bargain sale jobs as this, and
I'd guarantee not to starve--and to live as nigh the ground as a
second-floor bedroom anyhow. How about this next one? This feller in a
dory--coddin', I guess he is. Did--did Mr. Corot do him?"