He lifted a kiss from his lips and wafted it in the direction of his cousin’s office.

“Mr. Innerarity,” exclaimed the apothecary, “I fear you are making a great mistake.”

“You tink I hass too much?”

“Well, sir, to be candid, I do; but that is not your greatest mistake.”

“What she’s worse?”

The apothecary simultaneously smiled and blushed.

“I would rather not say; it is a passably good example of Creole art; there is but one way by which it can ever be worth what you ask for it.”

“What dat is?”

The smile faded and the blush deepened as Frowenfeld replied: 

“If it could become the means of reminding this community that crude ability counts next to nothing in art, and that nothing else in this world ought to work so hard as genius, it would be worth thousands of dollars!”

“You tink she is worse a t’ousand dollah?” asked the Creole, shadow and sunshine chasing each other across his face.

“No, sir.”

The unwilling critic strove unnecessarily against his smile.

“Ow much you tink?”

“Mr. Innerarity, as an exercise it is worth whatever truth or skill it has taught you; to a judge of paintings it is ten dollars’ worth of paint thrown away; but as an article of sale it is worth what it will bring without misrepresentation.”

“Two—­hun-rade an’—­fifty—­dollahs or—­not’in’!” said the indignant Creole, clenching one fist, and with the other hand lifting his hat by the front corner and slapping it down upon the counter.  “Ha, ha, ha! a pase of waint—­a wase of paint!  ‘Sieur Frowenfel’, you don’ know not’in’ ’bout it!  You har a jedge of painting?” he added cautiously.

“No, sir.”

“Eh, bien! foudre tonnerre!—­look yeh! you know?  ‘Sieur Frowenfel’?  Dat de way de publique halways talk about a hartis’s firs’ pigshoe.  But, I hass you to pardon me, Monsieur Frowenfel’, if I ’ave speak a lill too warm.”

“Then you must forgive me if, in my desire to set you right, I have spoken with too much liberty.  I probably should have said only what I first intended to say, that unless you are a person of independent means—­”

“You t’ink I would make bill of ladin’?  Ah!  Hm-m!”

“—­that you had made a mistake in throwing up your means of support—­”

“But ’e ‘as fill de place an’ don’ want me no mo’.  You want a clerk?—­one what can speak fo’ lang-widge—­French, Eng-lish, Spanish, an’ Italienne?  Come!  I work for you in de mawnin’ an’ paint in de evenin’; come!”

Joseph was taken unaware.  He smiled, frowned, passed his hand across his brow, noticed, for the first time since his delivery of the picture, the naked little boy standing against the edge of a door, said, “Why—­,” and smiled again.

“I riffer you to my cousin Honore,” said Innerarity.

“Have you any knowledge of this business?”