“Five hundred pounds!” exclaimed M. Poiron. “Qu’est-ce que vous chantez là? I want more than five hundred pounds.”
“Then you’re jolly well not going to get it,” cried Mr. Smith, in a rage. “And as for you”—he turned on Aristide—“I’ll wring your infernal neck yet.”
“Calm yourself, calm yourself!” smiled Aristide, who was enjoying himself hugely.
At this moment the door opened and Miss Christabel appeared. On seeing the decorated stranger she started with a little “Oh!” of surprise.
“I beg your pardon.”
Mr. Smith’s angry face wreathed itself in smiles.
“This, my darling, is M. Poiron, the eminent Paris expert, who has been good enough to come and give us his opinion on the picture.”
M. Poiron bowed. Aristide advanced.
“Mademoiselle, your appearance is like a mirage in a desert.”
She smiled indulgently and turned to her father. “I’ve been wondering what had become of you. Harry has been here for the last half-hour.”