Nevertheless I shall remain a collector and, humanly speaking, an ingrate, a wolf, a caitiff, until those six articles are mine. Make them mine, and for the remainder of that stuff you shall have the benefit of an experience that has been of incredible cost. Accept my figure, and I promise you as man to man to de-Cohenize myself utterly."
"They are yours," I said—"what are they and what is the figure? Clem—Mr. Price's glass."
"There—you disarm me. One bit of haggling or hesitation might have hardened me even now; the serpent within me would have lifted its head and struck. But you have saved yourself—and very well for that! The articles are those six ball-and-claw-foot chairs with violin backs. I will pay fifty dollars apiece for those. Remember—it is the voice of Cohen. The chairs are worth more—some day they'll fetch twice that; but, really, I must throw a sop to that collector-Cerberus within me. He's entitled to something. He had the wit to fetch me here."
"The chairs are yours," I said, wondering if I had not mistaken his offer, but determining not to betray this.
"A little memorandum of sale, if you please—and I'll give you my check. That larger sideboard would also have stood in the way, but those glass handles aren't the originals."
The formality was soon despatched, and my curious friend became truly human.
