David Walker gloomily. His emotions were not untinged by personal
dismay, for his commission would have been a large one.

He returned forthwith to his client, who was expecting him, and who
met him at the door.

"Well, Walker, what did the maiden ladies say? Have one of these," he
exclaimed, exhibiting some large cigars elaborately wrapped in gold
foil. "They're something peculiarly choice which a friend of mine--a
Cuban--obtained for me."

"They won't sell, Mr. Anderson."

The furniture king frowned. He was a heavily built but compact man who
looked as though he were accustomed to butt his way through life and
sweep away opposition, yet affable and easy-going withal.

"They won't sell? You offered them my price?"

"It struck them as prodigious, but they were not tempted."

"I've got to have it somehow. With this land added to theirs I should
have the finest place on the shore."

The broker disregarded this flamboyant remark, which was merely a
repetition of what he had heard several times already. "I warned you,"
he said, "that they might possibly refuse even this munificent offer.
They told me to tell you that if it was worth so much they could not
afford to sell."