a great concession on his part to allow that the thing was a picture at all—"is without a signature. That makes it almost valueless."
William smiled and gently shook his head.
"Beg your pardon, sir, but it is signed in every line."
"Rubbish. No theorising—this is a business proposition. And I tell you that without the signature, this bit of pretty-pretty just amounts to nix." The old man gave his fingers a contemptuous snap. "That's what it amounts to. But as you've taken the trouble to bring it all the way from Suffolk and you've spent a certain amount of your master's time in trying to get it clean, as I say, I'll spring a couple of pounds to encourage you. But why I should I really don't know."
June was hard-set to refrain from breaking the peace which followed, with the laugh of derision. Happily, by a triumph of will power, she bridled her tongue and kept her eyes modestly upon her plate.
"Now, boy!" Uncle Si made a series of conjuror's passes with his spectacles. "Two pounds! Take it or leave it! What do you say?"
William did not say anything, yet one of his shy smiles was winged to June across the table. She promptly sent back a scowl quite feral in its truculence, which yet was softened by a world of eloquence and humour behind it. There was no other way of intimating that Uncle Si must not learn too soon that the picture was now hers.
William, no fool, if he chose to use his wits, was able to interpret this wireless. Thus he began to temporise; and he did so in a way delightfully his own.
"What difference, sir, do you think the signature would make to our little masterpiece?"
