“ah! the pictures,” cried aristide, with a wide sweep of his arms
“You’ve forgotten the pictures,” said Mr. Smith.
“Ah! the pictures,” cried Aristide, with a wide sweep of his arms. “Galleries full of them. Raphael, Michael Angelo, Wiertz, Reynolds——”
He paused, not in order to produce the effect of a dramatic aposiopesis, but because he could not for the moment remember other names of painters.
“It is a truly historical château,” said he.
“I should love to see it,” said the girl.
Aristide threw out his arms across the table. “It is yours, mademoiselle, for your honeymoon,” said he.
Dinner came to an end. Miss Christabel left the gentlemen to their wine, an excellent port whose English qualities were vaunted by the host. Aristide, full of food and drink and the mellow glories of the castle in Languedoc, and smoking an enormous cigar, felt at ease with all the world. He knew he should like the kind Mr. Smith, hospitable though somewhat insular man. He could stay with him for a week—or a month—why not a year?
After coffee and liqueurs had been served Mr. Smith rose and switched on a powerful electric light at the end of the large room, showing a picture on an easel covered by a curtain. He beckoned to Aristide to join him and, drawing the curtain, disclosed the picture.