ings, certain vague trickles of surrendering austerities.
"That is my business," he admitted.
"What is?" she demanded, not unaware of the impatience in his tone.
"Paintings and old furniture and objets d'art in general," he told her. "That's what I go about appraising and buying up for the New York expert who is foolish enough to trust such matters to my judgment."
She was plainly puzzled by his ironic note of levity.
"Am I to accept this as an acknowledgment that you do not understand your own business?" she asked in her pointed, monitorial severity of tone.
"To err is human," he said as he folded up his camp stool. "And several times I've paid good money for mahogany that turned out to be dyed boxwood."
Her solemnity, however, was unshakable.
"But in the matter of paintings," she persisted. "You've had experience with them!"
