This, the dealer asserted, was the sort of "darned mushy
stuff" the public fell for, and he held it to be worth the fifteen, but
not a cent more. Kirk, humble by now, accepted three battered-looking
bills and departed.
He had a long talk with Ruth that night, and rose from it in the frame
of mind which in some men is induced by prayer. Ruth was quite
marvellously sensible and sympathetic.
"I wanted you," she said in answer to his self-reproaches, "and here we
are, together. It's simply nonsense to talk about ruining my life and
dragging me down. What _does_ it matter about this money? We have
got plenty left."
"We've got about as much left as you used to spend on hats in the old
days."
"Well, we can easily make it do. I've thought for some time that we
were growing too extravagant. And talking of hats, I had no right to
have that last one you bought me. It was wickedly expensive. We can
economize there, at any rate. We can get along splendidly on what you
have now. Besides, directly you settle down and start to paint, we
shall be quite rich again."
Kirk laughed grimly.
"I wish you were a dealer," he said. "Fifteen dollars is what I have
managed to extract from them so far. One of the Great Unwashed on Sixth
Avenue gave me that for that sketch I did of Bill on the floor."
"Which took you about three minutes to do," Ruth pointed out
triumphantly.
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