"If you talk in this way," said June once more severe, "I shall not go with you on Saturday to your little treasure house. Or on Sunday either. Or on any day of the week. If you were a millionaire, you could afford to be fanciful. Being what you are, and your salary less than half what it should be, I really think you ought to be ashamed of yourself."
She was a little astonished at her own vehemence. He seemed a little astonished at it also.
"Nothing is, but thinking makes it so," said June, with fine scorn. "That's what Mr. Boultby, the druggist at the bottom of our street at home, would call poppycock. It means you'll be very lucky if some fine morning you don't wake up and find yourself in the workhouse."
One smile more he gave her out of his deep eyes.
"That sort of talk," said June, with growing fierceness, "is just potty. It won't find you tools and a place to work in, or three meals a day, and a bed at night."
"But don't you see what I mean?"
"No, I don't. As I say, to my mind it's potty. But now tell me, what do you think this picture's worth if you were buying it for Uncle Si to sell again?"
"That is a very difficult question to answer. The master is so clever at selling things that he might get a big price for it in the market."
"Even without the signature?" And June fixed the eye of a hawk on the young man's face.
"I don't say that. The signature might make a lot of difference to a dealer. But don't let us talk of the price. There are things in this picture that money ought not to buy."
An impatient "Poppycock!" all but escaped Mr.
