It was a picture all grey skies and grey water and grey feathery trees, and a little man in the foreground wore a red cap.
“It is beautiful, but indeed it is magnificent!” cried Aristide, always impressionable to things of beauty.
“Genuine Corot, isn’t it?”
“Without doubt,” said Aristide.
His host poked him in the ribs. “I thought I’d astonish you. You wouldn’t believe Gottschalk could have done it. There it is—as large as life and twice as natural. If you or anyone else can tell it from a genuine Corot I’ll eat my hat. And all for eight pounds.”
Aristide looked at the beefy face and caught a look of cunning in the little pig’s eyes.
“Now are you satisfied?” asked Mr. Smith.
“More than satisfied,” said Aristide, though what he was to be satisfied about passed, for the moment, his comprehension.
“If it was a copy of an existing picture, you know—one might have understood it—that, of course, would be dangerous—but for a man to go and get bits out of various Corots and stick them together like this is miraculous. If it hadn’t been for a matter of business principle I’d have given the fellow eight guineas instead of pounds—hanged if I wouldn’t! He deserves it.”