Stefan was completely dismayed. "Why," he stammered, "I thought you were
so successful--"

"I'm sorry." Jensen dropped his eyes, picking nervously at his coat. "You
see, I am the eldest brother; a man does not like to admit failure. I may
be sold up any time now. I wanted Adolph not to guess, so I--wrote--him
--differently." He flushed painfully again. Stefan was silent, too taken
aback for speech.

"I tell you, Mr. Byrd," Jensen stammered on, striking his hands together
impotently, "for all its wealth, this is a city of dead hopes. It's been
a long fight, but it's over now.... Yes, you are Adolph's friend, and I
can't so much as buy a sketch from you. It's quite, quite over." And
suddenly he sank his head in his hands, while Stefan stood, infinitely
embarrassed, clutching his roll of canvases. After a moment Jensen,
mastering himself, lifted his head. His lined, prematurely old face
showed an expression at once pleading and dignified.

"I didn't dream what I wrote would do any harm, Mr. Byrd, but now of
course you will have to explain to Adolph--?"

Stefan, moved to sympathy, held out his hand.

"Look here, Jensen, you've put me in an awful hole, worse than you know.
But why should I say anything? Let Adolph think we're both millionaires,"
and he grinned ruefully.

Jensen straightened and took the proffered hand in one that trembled.
"Thank you," he said, and his eyes glistened. "I'm grateful. If there