"No, Antoinette, that I will not have. It is impossible. Beauty such as yours in not to be rendered by a painter's brush!"
"If that be so, all the more reason why we should be grateful to Mr. Lovell for endeavouring the impossible."
The lady peeped at Mr. Lovell with the quaintest malice in her eyes.
"Certainly, Antoinette, there is something in what you say. And, after all, it is a charming painting. I said, Victor, when I saw it, there can be no doubt, as a painting, it is charming--did I not say so?" M. Berigny inclined his head. With his handkerchief the Vicomte smoothed his moustache. He advanced towards Mr. Lovell: "Monsieur, a Frenchman--a true Frenchman--seldom errs. On those rare occasions on which he errs he is always willing, under proper conditions, to confess his error. Monsieur, I perceive that I have done you an injustice. For the injustice which I have done you--I desire to apologize."
Mr. Lovell smiled. He held out his hand.
"My dear fellow! There's nothing for which you need apologize."
The Vicomte grasped the artist's hand in both of his.
"My dear friend!" he cried.
"Philippe," whispered the lady into her husband's ear, "do you not think that you would like Mr. Lovell and his friend to favour us with their company at luncheon?"
The Vicomte seemed to think he would. They lunched together--all the five! Why not?