Miss Christabel told his name—one Harry Ralston—and not only his name, but, such was the peculiar, childlike charm of Aristide Pujol, also many other things about him. He was the Honourable Harry Ralston, the heir to a great brewery peerage, and very wealthy. He was a member of Parliament, and but for Parliamentary duties would have dined there that evening; but he was to come in later, as soon as he could leave the House. He also had a house in Hampshire, full of the most beautiful works of art. It was through their common hobby that her father and Harry had first made acquaintance.
“We’re supposed to have a very fine collection here,” she said, with a motion of her hand.
Aristide looked round the walls and saw them hung with pictures in gold frames. In those days he had not acquired an extensive culture. Besides, who having before him the firelight gleaming through Miss Christabel’s hair could waste his time over painted canvas? She noted his cursory glance.
“I thought you were a connoisseur?”
“I am,” said Aristide, his bright eyes fixed on her in frank admiration.
She blushed again; but this time she rose.
“I must go and dress for dinner. Perhaps you would like to be shown your room?”
He hung his head on one side.
“Have I been too bold, mademoiselle?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “You see, I’ve never met a Frenchman before.”