"
"Huh, nobody wants that stuff!" snorted Hunt. "It's too good. Sell it!
You're off your bean, young fellow!"
"I can sell anything, my bucko," Larry returned evenly. "All I need is
a man who has plenty of money and a moderate willingness to listen.
I've sold pictures of an oil derrick on a stock certificate, exact
value nothing at all, for a masterpiece's price--so I guess I could
sell a real picture."
"Aw, you shut up!"
"The real trouble with you," commented Larry, "is that, though you can
paint, as a business man, as a promoter of your own stock, the
suckling infant in that picture is a J. Pierpont Morgan of multiplied
capacity compared to--"
"Stop making that noise like a damned fool!"
This amiable pastime of throwing stones at each other was just then
interrupted by the entrance of Maggie for an appointed sitting, before
going to her business of carrying a tray of cigarettes about the
Ritzmore. She gave Hunt a pleasant "good-morning," the pleasantness
purposely stressed in order to make more emphatic her curt nod to
Larry and the cold hostility of her eye. During the hour she posed,
Larry, moving leisurely about his kitchen duties, addressed her
several times, but no remark got a word from her in response. He took
his rebuffs smilingly, which irritated her all the more.
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