Mr. Sandford came to an astonished pause. He looked at the uncouth patron of art, and at the dealer, and at the picture, in turn. It was on his lips to say that nothing would induce him to let the “Black Prince” go; but something stopped and chilled him--something, he could not tell what. He paused a moment, then retired suddenly to the back of the studio. “I’m not good at making bargains--I will leave myself,” he said, “in Mr. Daniells’ hands.” “Ah, a bad system--a bad system. Every man ought to make his own bargains,” said the rich man. Mr. Sandford did not listen. He began to turn over a portfolio of old sketches as if that were the most important thing in the world. He heard the voices murmur on, sometimes louder, sometimes lower, broken by more than one sharp exclamation, but restrained himself and did not interfere. Many thoughts went through his mind while he stooped over the big portfolio, and turned over, without seeing them, sketch after sketch. Why should he be bidden to “take it” in that imperative way? What did Daniells know which made him interfere with such a high hand? He was tempted again and again to turn round, to put a stop to the negotiation, to say, as he had the best right, “I’ll have none of this;” but he did not do it, though he could not even to himself explain why. He found eventually that Daniells had sold the picture for him at a reduction of fifty guineas from the original price, which was a thing of no importance. He hated the bargain, but the little sacrifice of the money moved him not at all. He recovered his temper or his composure when the arrangement was completed, and smiled with a reserved acceptance of the millionaire’s invitation to “come to my place and see it hung,” as he showed the pair away. They were a well-matched pair, and Daniells was no doubt far better adapted to deal with each a man than a sensitive, proud artist, who did not like to have his toes trodden upon. After a while, indeed, Mr. Sandford felt himself quite able to smile at the incident, and shook off all his annoyance. He went in to luncheon with the cheque in his hand. “I have sold the ‘Black Prince,’” he said, with a certain pleasure, even triumph, in his voice, remembering how Jack’s friends had scoffed, if not at the picture, at least at the school to which it belonged. “Ah!” cried Mrs. Sandford, half pleased, half regretful. “I knew we should not have to give it house-room long.” She gave a glance round her as if she had heard something derogatory to the picture too. “Who have you taken in and done for this time, father?” said Harry, who was given to banter. “Was it that horrid man who came with Mr. Daniells?” cried Lizzie. “Oh, papa, I should not have thought you would have sold a nice picture to such a man.” “Art-patrons are like gift-horses; we must not look them in the mouth,” said the painter. “There are quantities of h’s, no doubt, to be found about the studio; but if we stood upon that----”