Then the smile left
his face, and the reddish glow in his eyes, which had been there since
the burning of the mill, fled, and a touch of amazement and confusion
took its place. All in a moment he was like a fluttered dweller of the
wilds to whom comes some tremor of danger.
His mouth opened as though he would forbid the selling of the heirloom;
but it closed again, because he knew he had no right to withhold it from
the hammer; and he took on a look like that which comes to the eyes of a
child when it faces humiliating denial. Quickly as it came, however, it
vanished, for he remembered that he could buy the dish himself. He could
buy it himself and keep it. . . . Yet what could he do with it? Even so,
he could keep it. It could still be his till better days came.
The auctioneer's voice told off the value of the fruitdish--"As an
heirloom, as an antique; as a piece of workmanship impossible of
duplication in these days of no handicraft; as good pure silver, bearing
the head of Louis Quinze--beautiful, marvellous, historic, honourable,"
and Jean Jacques made ready to bid. Then he remembered he had no
money--he who all his life had been able to take a roll of bills from his
pocket as another man took a packet of letters. His glance fell in shame,
and the words died on his lips, even as M. Manotel, the auctioneer, was
about to add another five-dollar bid to the price, which already was
standing at forty dollars.
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