A voice startles him, as the last touches are being laid on:
"Young man, will you sell this here picture?"
"That depends," rejoins Armand. His use of the vernacular charms
the stranger.
"Have you set a price?" cries the visitor, in rough Western English.
"I have not as yet," the copyist answers.
He surveys the speaker, a man of fifty years, whose dress and manner
speak of prosperity in efflorescent form.
The diamond pin, huge watch-chain, rich jewelled buttons, and
gold-headed cane, prove him an American Croesus.
"Well, when it's done, you bring it to my hotel. Everyone knows
me. I will give you what you want for it. It's way up; better than
the original," says the Argonaut, with a leer at its loveliness.
He drops his card on the moist canvas. The nettled artist reads,
{{Colonel Joseph Woods, California. Grand Hotel.}}
on the imposing pasteboard.
The good-humored Woods nods.
"Yes sir, that's me. Every one in London, Paris, and New York,
knows Joe Woods.
"Good at the bank," he chuckles.
"What's your name?" he says abruptly.
Armand rises bowing, and handing his card to the stranger:
"Armand Valois."
Woods whistles a resounding call. The "flaneurs" start in
astonishment.
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