“Well, Baron?” said the young man, cheerfully. “What’s your idea?”
Aristide came forward and resumed his place at the end of the table. The picture was in front of him beneath the strong electric light; on his left stood Mr. Smith and Poiron, on his right Miss Christabel and the Honourable Harry.
“I’ll not take three thousand pounds for it,” said Aristide. “A picture like that! Never!”
“I assure you it would be a fair price,” said Poiron.
“You mentioned that figure yourself only just now,” said Mr. Smith, with an ugly glitter in his little pig’s eyes.
“I presume, gentlemen,” said Aristide, “that this picture is my own property.” He turned engagingly to his host. “Is it not, cher ami?”
“Of course it is. Who said it wasn’t?”
“And you, M. Poiron, acknowledge formally that it is mine,” he asked, in French.
“Sans aucun doute.”
“Eh bien,” said Aristide, throwing open his arms and gazing round sweetly. “I have changed my mind. I do not sell the picture at all.”