“Oh, yes, in time,” Cross answered; “but not while they are worth anything much to the growers.”

“What are they worth?  I mean, what would it be worth if there was only one?”

“I don’t know; I dare say I could get L400 for the single bulb.”

“But if there were more they would not be worth so much?  If there were five, what would they be worth?”

“Pretty well as much, very likely L300 for one bulb.  Van Heigen would give a written guarantee with it not to sell another bulb to another grower.”

“But he could keep the others himself?” Julia asked.  “That would be eating his cake and having it too.  Tell me,” she said, feeling she was imitating the Patriarch when he was pleading for Sodom and Gomorrah, “if there were ten bulbs, what could you get for one.”

Cross was amused by her interest.  “A hundred pounds, I dare say,” he said; “but I shall never have the chance.  The trade will never touch those blue daffodils while they are worth having.  When the old man does begin to sell them—­when they are worth very little to the growers—­he will sell to collectors, cranky old connoisseurs, from choice.  That’s what I mean when I say he doesn’t understand business as business; he would rather sell his precious blue daffodils where they were what he calls ‘appreciated.’  He would sooner they went for a moderate price to people who would worship them, than make an enormous profit out of them.”

“But the connoisseurs could sell them,” Julia objected.  “If I were a connoisseur and bought one when they were for sale, I could sell it to you if I liked.”

“Yes, but you wouldn’t,” Cross said; “if you were a connoisseur you would not dream of parting with your bulb.  You wouldn’t have the slightest wish to make a hundred per cent. on your purchase, or two or three hundred either.  Also I shouldn’t buy.”

“Why not?”

“I couldn’t afford to have my name mixed up with the business.”

Julia looked at him critically.  “You could afford that the business should be done without your name?” she suggested.

He laughed.  “I could introduce the seller, did such an impossible person exist, to some one who could buy.”

It was Julia’s turn to laugh, that soundless laugh of hers which gave the feeling of a joke only half shared.  “For a consideration, of course,” she said.

“Something would naturally stick to my fingers,” Cross answered, amused rather than offended.

He was a good deal amused by his partner, finding her more interesting than most of the girls he met that evening; afterwards he forgot her, for two days later he left the place, and thought no more either about Miss Polkington or the talk he had had with her.