Uncle William shook his head guiltily. "Not more'n five or six dollars,"
he said. "I reckon mebbe I _did_ put it a leetle low." A smile had
bloomed again in his face. "If he can pay the price, he'll have to have
it, I reckon--for all o' me."

"Yes, he can pay it. He is very rich, and he cares for pictures. He has
hundreds. He buys them everywhere--in Paris, London, St. Petersburg,
Italy--It only depends on whether he likes--"

The man had come into view again and was studying the picture, dipping
toward it in little sidewise flights. Uncle William watched the
pantomime jealously. "How'd you come to know him?" he asked.

"He knew my mother. He had known her from a girl. I think he loved her,"
she said quietly, her eyes on the man. "He was on the legation at St.
Petersburg--See! He _does_ like them!" She had leaned forward.

Uncle William glanced up.

The man was standing a little removed from the painting, his arms
folded, his head thrown back, oblivious to the crowd.

She rose quickly. "I am going to speak to him," she said. "Wait here for
me." She passed into the changing throng that filled the room beyond.

Uncle William waited patiently, his eyes studying the swift kaleidoscope
of the doorway. When she reappeared in it, her face was alight with
color. "Come." She held out her hand. "I want you to meet him. He likes
them--oh, very much!" She pressed her hands together lightly. "I think