‘A very fine example of the artist’s work,’ said the man who was holding the picture.
‘How much?’ I said briskly.
The answer took my breath away.
‘Twenty-five thousand,’ he said in his gentle voice.
I’m quite good at keeping a poker face. I didn’t show anything. At least I don’t think I did. He added some name that sounded foreign. The artist’s name, I suppose, and that it had just come on the market from a house in the country, where the people who lived there had had no idea what it was. I kept my end up and sighed.
‘It’s a lot of money but it’s worth it, I suppose,’ I said.
Twenty-five thousand pounds. What a laugh!
‘Yes,’ he said and sighed. ‘Yes indeed.’ He lowered the picture very gently and carried it back to the window. He looked at me and smiled. ‘You have good taste,’ he said.
I felt that in some way he and I understood each other. I thanked him and went out into Bond Street.
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