Mr. Smith caught him by the wrist and dragged him out of the room.
“You little brute! Do you want your neck broken?”
“Do you want the marriage of your daughter with the rich and Honourable Harry broken?” asked Aristide.
“Oh, damn! Oh, damn! Oh, damn!” cried Mr. Smith, stamping about helplessly and half weeping.
Aristide entered the dining-room and beamed on the company.
“The kind Mr. Smith has consented. Mr. Honourable Harry and Miss Christabel, there is your Corot. And now, may I be permitted?” He rang the bell. A servant appeared.
“Some champagne to drink to the health of the fiancés,” he cried. “Lots of champagne.”
Mr. Smith looked at him almost admiringly.
“By Jove!” he muttered. “You have got a nerve.”