"We must hunt up our other friends," said Margaret, turning over the pages of the catalogue. "Where are Mr. Castleton's, I wonder? Oh, there's one in the next room—No. 407. Let's go and look at it."
The picture in question was the portrait of Madame Bertier, a clever study in an impressionist style, showing the bright eyes and eager features of that volatile lady under cover of a large black hat and veil. It was perhaps one of the best pictures that Mr. Castleton had ever painted, and it was attracting quite a small crowd. Margaret and Lorraine came up, and joined the outer circle of admirers. In front of them stood two gentlemen and a lady—foreigners. They spoke softly and rapidly together in French. Lorraine, whose knowledge of that language was not far beyond the ordinary schoolgirl standard, could not understand all they were saying, but she caught a word here and there. The lady was admiring the skill of the painting, and voting it worthy of the Salon in Paris; one of the gentlemen admired the beauty of the model, the other, with a pleased smile, explained that it was his wife, and that, though a charming portrait, it scarcely did justice to the original.
"Mais c'est à merveille!" he said, with a quick gesticulation, as he moved on to allow other people access to the picture.
Lorraine nudged Margaret, and drew her aside.
"Did you hear that?" she whispered. "That man in the light suit declared that Madame Bertier was his wife!"
"Impossible! Her husband is interned in Germany!"
"Well, that was what he said at any rate."
"Perhaps he was making up, just for effect. Some people like to tell these wonderful fibs in public, just to impress the outside world."
"Then why didn't he speak English, if he wanted to impress people?"
"Which man was it?"