discern or share the mounting ecstasy of
the connoisseur, of the spirit which is to the artist what the wife
is to the husband, as he realized the truth and power of the
coloring, its stained-glass glow, the justice and strength of the
patterning and the authentic silk-and-steel of the texture.

"Is it any good?" asked Selby suddenly. "I've heard of 'em being
worth a lot sometimes thousands of dollars!"

"Sometimes," agreed Mr. Baruch. "Those you can see in museums. This
one, now I would offer him twenty rubles for it, and I would give
perhaps thirty if he bargained too hard. That is because I have a
place for it in my house."

"And he'd probably make a hundred per cent, on it at that," said
Selby. "These fellows."

The loud feet of the ambulance men on the stairs interrupted him. Mr.
Baruch, dragging the partly unfolded rugs with him, moved away as the
white clad doctor and his retinue of stretcher-bearers came in at the
door, with exactly the manner of the mere spectator who makes room
for people more directly concerned. He saw the doctor kneel beside
the prostrate man and Miss Pilgrim hand him one of the office
tea-glasses; then, while all crowded round to watch the process of
luring back the strayed soul of the peddler, he had leisure to assure
himself again of the quality of his find. The tea-glass clinked
against clenched teeth. "A spoon, somebody!" snapped the doctor. The
cramped throat gurgled painfully; but Mr. Baruch, slave to the
delight of the eye, was unheeding. A joy akin to love, pervading and
rejoicing his every faculty, had possession of him. The carpet was
all he had deemed it and more, the perfect expression in its medium
of a fine and pure will to beauty.

The peddler on the floor behind him groaned painfully and tatters of
speech formed on his lips.

"That's better," said the doctor encouragingly.

Mr. Baruch dropped the rug and moved quietly towards the group.

The man was conscious again; a stretcher-bearer, kneeling behind him,
was holding him in a half sitting posture, and Mr. Baruch watched
with interest how the tide of returning intelligence mounted in the
thin mask of his face. He was an Armenian by every evidence, an
effect of weather-beaten pallor appearing through dense masses of
coal-black beard and hair one of those timid and servile
off-scourings of civilization whose wandering lives are daily epics
of horrid peril and adventure. His pale eyes roved here and there as
he lay