Presently a relaxation, if not actual friendship, began to develop in their attitude toward each other.
"Tell you what," Larry remarked, standing with legs wide apart gazing at the picture of the Italian mother throned on the curb nursing her child, "if I were dolled up all proper, I bet I could take some of this stuff out and sell it for real dough." "Huh, nobody wants that stuff!" snorted Hunt.

"It's too good.

Sell it! You're off your bean, young fellow!" "I can sell anything, my bucko," Larry returned evenly.

"All I need is a man who has plenty of money and a moderate willingness to listen.
I've sold pictures of an oil derrick on a stock certificate, exact value nothing at all, for a masterpiece's price--so I guess I could sell a real picture." "Aw, you shut up!" "The real trouble with you," commented Larry, "is that, though you can paint, as a business man, as a promoter of your own stock, the suckling infant in that picture is a J.Pierpont Morgan of multiplied capacity compared to--" "Stop making that noise like a damned fool!" This amiable pastime of throwing stones at each other was just then interrupted by the entrance of Maggie for an appointed sitting, before going to her business of carrying a tray of cigarettes about the Ritzmore.

She gave Hunt a pleasant "good-morning," the pleasantness purposely stressed in order to make more emphatic her curt nod to Larry and the cold hostility of her eye.