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. He was born a man and had a stomach
instead of being born a god without one. As to living--he didn't
really live--no great painter really lives until he is dead. And
that's the way it should be--they would never have become immortal
with a box full of bonds among their assets. They would have
stopped work. Now they can rest in their graves with the
consciousness that they have done their level best."
"There is one thing would lift him out of it, or ought to,"
remarked Harrington, with a glance around the circle.
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