"Oh, come," said Block at last, "we can't be all day about this! Your
figure is out of all reason. If you'd said even four hundred now ..."
"Oh, yes," said Goldsmith. "We want to be liberal. We appreciate you've
done a good job. Say four hundred and I'll write you a check for it
now." He took a small check-book and a fountain pen out of his pocket.
"That's all right, eh?"
Rose made another effort at addition. A hundred and ninety, and fifty,
and twenty, and the other ghostly hundred that wouldn't account for
itself and yet insisted on coming in and mixing everything up. She
turned on the two partners a look of perfectly genuine distress.
"If you'll let me go away and add it up ..." she began.
Goldsmith's heart was touched. The costumes were a bargain at four
hundred and sixty-five, and he knew it. There was an indescribable sort
of dash to them that would lend tone to the whole production. And then
the face of that pretty young girl who must have worked so desperately
hard to make them and who was so obviously helpless at this bargaining
game, would have moved a harder heart than his.
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