“Don’t you? Memory is bad, is it not? Would ten thousand francs paint the rectory, then?”
“It would ease my mind and sweeten my sleep at night to have half that sum, my friend. With two hundred pounds I could face the world aequo animo.”
“I will see what I can do. This is the print, is it? I don’t know much about such things myself, but I should put the price down at ten thousand francs.”
“But the man in the Quai Voltaire?”
“Precisely. I know little about prints, but a lot about the Quai Voltaire. Who is the lady? I presume it is a portrait?”
“It is a portrait, but I cannot identify the original. To an expert of that period it should not be impossible, however.” Septimus Marvin was all awake now, with flushed cheeks and eyes brightened by enthusiasm. “Do you know why? Because her hair is dressed in a peculiar way—poufs de sentiment, these curls are called. They were only worn for a brief period. In those days the writings of Jean Jacques Rousseau had a certain vogue among the idle classes. The women showed their sentiments in the dressing of their hair. Very curious—very curious. And here, in the hair, half-concealed, is an imitation dove’s nest.”
“The deuce there is!” ejaculated Turner, pulling at his cigar.
“A fashion which ruled for a still briefer period.”
“I should hope so. Well, roll the thing up, and I will do my best for you. I’m less likely to be taken in than you are, perhaps. If I sell it, I will send you a cheque this evening. It is a beautiful face.”
“Yes,” agreed Septimus Marvin, with, a sharp sigh. “It is a beautiful face.”