Down came
the hammer. The auctioneer whispered "Sir Owen Asher" to his clerk.
"It's a mercy I got it for that; I was afraid it would go over the
thousand. Now, come, we have got our two pictures. I'm sick of the
place."
Harding had thought of staying on, just to see the end of the sale,
but it was easier to yield to Owen than to argue with him; besides,
he was anxious to see how the drawing would look on his wall. Of
course it was a Boucher. Stupid remarks were always floating about
Christie's. But he would know for certain as soon as he saw the
drawing in a new light.
He was muttering "It is genuine enough," when his servant opened the
door--"Sir Owen Asher."
"I see you have hung up the drawing. It looks very well, doesn't it.
You'll never regret having taken my advice."
"Taken your advice!" Harding was about to answer. "But what is the
use in irritating the poor man? He is so much in love he hardly
knows what he is saying. Owen Asher advising me as to what I should
buy!"
Owen went over and looked into Harding's Ingres.
"Every time one sees it one likes it better." And they talked about
Ingres for some time, until Owen's thoughts went back to Evelyn, and
looking from the portrait by Ingres to the drawing by Boucher he
seemed suddenly to lose control; tears rose to his eyes, and Harding
watched him, wondering whither Owen's imagination carried him.
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