"Thank you, Myner," said I; "you're a much better
fellow than ever I supposed. I'll write to-night."
"O, you're a pretty decent sort yourself," returned
Myner, with more than his usual flippancy of manner,
but, as I was gratefully aware, not a trace of his
occasional irony of meaning.
Well, these were brave days, on which I could dwell for
ever. Brave, too, were those that followed, when
Pinkerton and I walked Paris and the suburbs, viewing
and pricing houses for my new establishment, or covered
ourselves with dust and returned laden with Chinese
gods and brass warming-pans from the dealers in
antiquities. I found Pinkerton well up in the
situation of these establishments as well as in the
current prices, and with quite a smattering of critical
judgment. It turned out he was investing capital in
pictures and curiosities for the States, and the
superficial thoroughness of the creature appeared in
the fact that although he would never be a connoisseur,
he was already something of an expert. The things
themselves left him as near as may be cold, but he had
a joy of his own in understanding how to buy and sell
them.
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