“Will you come, monsieur?” asked Aristide.
“Since I’m going to rob you of your picture,” said the young man, with smiling courtesy, “the least I can do is to pay you a visit of apology. Lovely!” said he, going up to the Corot.
Aristide took Miss Christabel, now more bewitching than ever with the glow of young love in her eyes and a flush on her cheek, a step or two aside and whispered:—
“But he is charming, your fiancé! He almost deserves his good fortune.”
“Why almost?” she laughed, shyly.
“It is not a man, but a demi-god, that would deserve you, mademoiselle.”
M. Poiron’s harsh voice broke out.
“You see, it is painted in the beginning of Corot’s later manner—it is 1864. There is the mystery which, when he was quite an old man, became a trick. If you were to put it up to auction at Christie’s it would fetch, I am sure, five thousand pounds.”
“That’s more than I can afford to give,” said the young man, with a laugh. “Mr. Smith mentioned something between three and four thousand pounds. I don’t think I can go above three.”
“I have nothing to do with it, my dear boy, nothing whatever,” said Mr. Smith, rubbing his hands. “You wanted a Corot. I said I thought I could put you on to one. It’s for the Baron here to mention his price. I retire now and for ever.”