The slower the better for Jack. The delay helped his judgment. The
things he didn't want after living with them for months (Jack's test of
immortality) he was quite willing they should cart away; the things he
loved he would go hungry to hold on to.

This weeding-out process had left a collection of curios, stuffs,
hangings, brass, old furniture, pottery, china, costumes and the like,
around Jack's rooms, some of which would have enriched a museum: a Louis
XVI. cabinet, for instance, that had been stolen from the Trianon (what
a lot of successful thieves there were in those days); the identical
sofa that the Pompadour used in her afternoon naps, and the undeniable
curtain that covered her bed, and which now hung between Jack's
two rooms.

In addition to these ancient and veritable "antiques" there was a
collection of equally veritable "moderns," two of which had arrived that
morning from an out-of-town exhibition and which were at this precise
moment leaning against the legs of an old Spanish chair. One had had
three inches of gilt moulding knocked off its frame in transit, and both
bore Jack's signature in the lower left-hand corner.

"Didn't want 'em, eh?" cried Jack, throwing himself on to the divan,
temporarily exhausted with the labor of hanging the lamp and attaching
the tassel. "Wanted something painted with darning-needle
brushes--little tooty-wooty stuff that everybody can understand. 'See
the barndoor and the nails in the planks and all them knots!'"--Jack was
on his feet now, imitating the drawl of the country art-buyer--"'Ain't
them natural! Why, Maria, if you look close ye can see jes' where the
ants crawl in and out. My, ain't that wonderful!'"