"Even I. Come, come, I see that I have upset you. But, as a friend, as a brother dealer, I say this: Get rid of it. You are taking up a line of your own. You mean to sell honest copies as such, and to guarantee the genuine bits. A capital idea. Only don’t mix up the two. To succeed in London it is necessary to establish a reputation. My eldest son tells me that you built up a substantial business in Melchester—that your reputation there was above reproach. Excellent! I rejoiced to hear it. In our business we want men like you. But, no compromise! Sell that commode for what it is, a fine copy executed at the end of the eighteenth century. As such it has a considerable value. I have a customer, an American gentleman, who would buy it to-morrow for what it is, and pay a handsome figure." The unhappy Quinney moistened his lips with a feverish tongue. "What do you call a handsome figure, Mr. Lark?" "Five or six hundred." "And I paid nine!" "Well, well!" Gustavus turned his broad back upon the commode, and examined the Early Worcester in the Chippendale cabinet. There was a tea-set of the Dr. Wall period, bearing the much-prized square mark, some thirty pieces of scale-blue with flowers delicately painted in richly-gilded panels. "Is that scale-blue for sale?" "At a price, Mr. Lark. I have had it for three years. I’m waiting for a customer who will give me two hundred pounds, not a penny less." "Two hundred pounds? And you won’t sell to the dealers who have customers who write such big cheques. Now, look here, Mr. Quinney, I am sorry for you. I know how you feel, because I have made, I repeat, sad and costly blunders myself. You don’t ask enough for that scale-blue." "Not enough?" "I could sell that set for three hundred this afternoon. To prove that I am not boasting I will offer you two hundred guineas, cash on the nail." "Done!" said Quinney. He added excitedly: "I’m much obliged, Mr. Lark. I wish you could send me the American gentleman." Gustavus laughed. He looked at Quinney with quite a paternal air. "Come, come, isn’t that asking too much?" "I beg pardon, of course it is, but what am I to do about that commode?" "I repeat—sell it." "You know that I haven’t a dog’s chance of selling it now. Don’t flimflam me, Mr. Lark! You’re too big a man, too good a sort. You’ve treated me handsomely over that scale-blue. Now help me out of this hole, if you can." Lark nodded impressively. He went back to the commode, and examined it meticulously, opening and shutting the doors, looking at the back, scraping the paint of the panels with the point of a penknife. Then the oracle spoke portentously: "I never haggle with dealers, Mr. Quinney, and I don’t want that commode; but, to oblige you, I’ll give you five hundred for it, and chance making a hundred profit." "Make it six hundred, Mr. Lark." "I repeat—I never haggle." "Damn it! I must cut a loss."