The next day, after business hours, Sam, in the goodness of his heart,
called to comfort Jack over the loss of the Monet--a loss as real to the
painter as if he had once possessed it--he _had_ in that first glance
through the window-pane; every line and tone and brush-mark was his own.
So great was Sam's sympathy for Jack, and his interest in the matter,
that he had called upon a real millionaire and had made an appointment
for him to come to Jack's studio that same afternoon, in the hope that
he would leave part of his wealth behind him in exchange for one of
Jack's masterpieces.

Sam found Jack flat on the floor, his back supported by a cushion
propped against the divan. He was gloating over a small picture, its
frame tilted back on the upright of his easel. It was the Monet!

"Did he loan it to you, old man?" Sam inquired.

"Loan it to me, you quill-driver! No, I bought it!"

"For how much?"

"Full price--six hundred dollars. Do you suppose I'd insult Monet by
dickering for it?"

"What have you got to pay it with?" This came in a hopeless tone.

"Not a cent! What difference does that make? Samuel, you interest me.
Why is it your soul never rises above dollars and cents?"

"But, Jack--you can't take his property and----"