"That makes the picture no better and no worse.

If it was mine, and I could afford it, I would sell it to anybody who loved it for thirty cents rather than sell it to a man who didn't, for thirty millions.

When Troyon painted it he put his soul into it, and you can no more tack a price to that than you can stick an auction card on a summer cloud, or appraise the perfume from a rose garden.

It has no money value, Legarge, and never will have.

You might as well list sunsets on the Stock Exchange." "But Troyon had to live, Holker," chimed in Harrington, who, with the freedom accorded every member of the club--one of its greatest charms--had just joined the group and sat listening.
"Yes," rejoined Morris, a quizzjeal expression crossing his face--"that was the curse of it.