"I can't--can't I? _His_ property! Do you suppose Monet painted it to
please that one-eyed, double-jointed dealer, who don't know a picture
from a hole in the ground! Monet painted it for me--me, Samuel--ME--who
gets more comfort out of it than a dozen dealers--ME--and that part of
the human race who know a good thing when they see it. You don't belong
to it, Samuel. What's six hundred or six millions to do with it? It's
got no price, and never will have any price. It's a work of art,
Samuel--a work of art. That's one thing you don't understand and
never will."

"But he paid his money for it and it's not right----"

"Of course--that's the only good thing he has done--paid for it so that
it could get over here where I could just wallow in it. Get down here,
you heathen, take off your shoes and bow three times to the floor and
then feast your eyes. You think you've seen landscapes before, but you
haven't. You've only seen fifty cents' worth of good canvas spoiled by
ten cents' worth of paint. I put it that way, Samuel, because that's the
only way you'll understand it. Look at it! Did you ever see such a sky?
Why, it's like a slash of light across a mountain-pool! I tell
you--Samuel--that's a masterpiece!"

While they were discussing the merits of the landscape and the demerits
of the transaction there came a knock at the door and the Moneybags
walked in. Before he opened his lips Jack had taken his measure. He was
one of those connoisseurs who know it all. The town is full of them.

A short connoisseur with a red face--red in spots--close-clipped gray
hair that stood up on his head like a polishing brush, gold eyeglasses
attached to a wide black ribbon, and a scissored mustache. He was