his friends said, “of his general game.”  The second of the private collectors was an Americophobe, and bought an unique picture to “spite the damned Yanks.”  The third of the private collectors was Soames, who—­more sober than either of the, others—­bought after a visit to Madrid, because he was certain that Goya was still on the up grade.  Goya was not booming at the moment, but he would come again; and, looking at that portrait, Hogarthian, Manetesque in its directness, but with its own queer sharp beauty of paint, he was perfectly satisfied still that he had made no error, heavy though the price had been—­heaviest he had ever paid.  And next to it was hanging the copy of “La Vendimia.”  There she was—­the little wretch-looking back at him in her dreamy mood, the mood he loved best because he felt so much safer when she looked like that.

He was still gazing when the scent of a cigar impinged on his nostrils, and a voice said: 

“Well, Mr. Forsyde, what you goin’ to do with this small lot?”

That Belgian chap, whose mother-as if Flemish blood were not enough—­had been Armenian!  Subduing a natural irritation, he said: 

“Are you a judge of pictures?”

“Well, I’ve got a few myself.”

“Any Post-Impressionists?”

“Ye-es, I rather like them.”

“What do you think of this?” said Soames, pointing to the Gauguin.

Monsieur Profond protruded his lower lip and short pointed beard.

“Rather fine, I think,” he said; “do you want to sell it?”

Soames checked his instinctive “Not particularly”—­he would not chaffer with this alien.

“Yes,” he said.

“What do you want for it?”

“What I gave.”

“All right,” said Monsieur Profond.  “I’ll be glad to take that small picture.  Post-Impressionists—­they’re awful dead, but they’re amusin’.  I don’ care for pictures much, but I’ve got some, just a small lot.”

“What do you care for?”

Monsieur Profond shrugged his shoulders.

“Life’s awful like a lot of monkeys scramblin’ for empty nuts.”

“You’re young,” said Soames.  If the fellow must make a generalization, he needn’t suggest that the forms of property lacked solidity!

“I don’ worry,” replied Monsieur Profond smiling; “we’re born, and we die.  Half the world’s starvin’.  I feed a small lot of babies out in my mother’s country; but what’s the use?  Might as well throw my money in the river.”

Soames looked at him, and turned back toward his Goya.  He didn’t know what the fellow wanted.

“What shall I make my cheque for?” pursued Monsieur Profond.

“Five hundred,” said Soames shortly; “but I don’t want you to take it if you don’t care for it more than that.”

“That’s all right,” said Monsieur Profond; “I’ll be ’appy to ’ave that picture.”

He wrote a cheque with a fountain-pen heavily chased with gold.  Soames watched the process uneasily.  How on earth had the fellow known that he wanted to sell that picture?  Monsieur Profond held out the cheque.