As the Painter paused for the sensation to sink in, the Antiquary murmured soothingly, “Get it off your mind quickly, Old Man,” the Critic remarked that the Campbells were surely coming, and the Patron asked with nettled dignity how the Painter knew.

“Know?” he resumed, having had the necessary fillip.  “Because I knew him, smelled his stogy, and drank with him in Cedar Street.  It was some time in the early ’70s, when a passion for Corot’s opalescences (with the Critic’s permission) was the latest and most knowing fad.  As a realist I half mistrusted the fascination, but I felt it with the rest, and whenever any of the besotted dealers of that rude age got in an ’Early Morning’ or a ‘Dance of Nymphs,’ I was there among the first.  For another reason, my friend Rosenheim, then in his modest beginnings as a marchand-amateur, was likely to appear at such private views.  With his infallible tact for future salability, he was already unloading the Institute, and laying in Barbizon.  Find what he’s buying now, and I’ll tell you the next fad.”

The Critic nodded sagaciously, knowing that Rosenheim, who now poses as collecting only for his pleasure, has already begun to affect the drastic productions of certain clever young Spanish realists.

“Rosenheim,” the Painter pursued, “really loved his Corot quite apart from prospective values.  I fancy the pink silkiness of the manner always appeals to Jews, recalling their most authentic taste, the eighteenth-century Frenchman.  Anyhow, Rosenheim took his new love seriously, followed up the smallest examples religiously, learned to know the forgeries that were already afloat—­in short, was the best informed Corotist in the city.  It was appropriate, then, that my first relations with the poet-painter should have the sanction of Rosenheim’s presence.”

Lingering upon the reminiscence, the Painter sopped up the last bit of anchovy paste, drained his toby, and pushed it away.  The rest of us settled back comfortably for a long session, as he persisted.  “Rosenheim wrote me one day that he had got wind of a Corot in a Cedar Street auction room.  It might be, so his news went, the pendant to the one he had recently bought at the Bolton sale.  He suggested we should go down together and see.  So we joggled down Broadway in the ’bus, on what looked rather like a wild-goose chase.  But it paid to keep the run of Cedar Street in those days; one might find anything.  The gilded black walnut was pushing the old mahogany out of good houses; Wyant and Homer Martin were occasionally raising the wind by ventures in omnibus sales; then there were old masters which one cannot mention because nobody would believe.  But that particular morning the Corot had no real competitor; its radiance fairly filled the entire junk-room.  Rosenheim was in raptures.  As luck would have it, it was indeed the companion-piece to his, and his it should be at all costs.  In Cedar Street, he reasonably felt, one might even hope