And then Joe, with the air of a Monte Cristo, drew forth a ten, a five, a two and a one-all legal tender notes-and laid them beside Delia’s earnings.
‘Sold that water-colour of the obelisk to a man from Peoria,’ he announced overwhelmingly
‘Don’t joke with me,’ said Delia-‘not from Peoria!’
‘All the way. I wish you could see him, Dele. Fat man with a woolen muffler and a quill toothpick. He saw the sketch in Thinkle’s window and thought it was a windmill at first. He was game, though, and bought it anyhow. He ordered another-an oil sketch of the Leckawanna freight depot-to take back with him Music lessons! Oh, I guess Art is still in it.’
‘I’m so glad you’ve kept on,’ said Delia heartily. ‘you’re bound to win, dear. Thirty-three dollars! We never had so much to spend before. We’ll have oysters to-night.’
‘And filet mignon with champignons,’ said Joe. ‘Where is the olive fork?’
On the next Saturday evening Joe reached home first. He spread his $18 on the parlour table and washed what seemed to be a great deal of dark paint from his hands.
Half an hour later Delia arrived, her right hand tied up in a shapeless bundle of wraps and bandages.
‘How is this?’ asked Joe after the usual greetings
Delia laughed, but not very joyously