ways praise, and complimented me on owning them" the
dear creature explained. "Besides, he is in this neighbourhood expressly
to see the cathedral; and monsieur your brother has made a most
beautiful sketch of the cathedral. It is now in his portfolio. Is there
nothing we can do? I have already induced the monsieur to drink a glass
of milk while I have come to consult Mademoiselle."

I thought hard for a minute, because it would be grand if I could say
when Brian came back, "I have sold your cathedral for you." But I might
have saved myself brain fag. Madame Mounet had settled everything in her
head, and was merely playing me, like a foolish fish.

"What I have thought of is this," she said. "I told the monsieur that he
could see something better than my prints if he would give himself the
pain of waiting till I could fetch the key of a room where an
artist-client of ours has a marvellous exhibition. There is _no_ such
room yet, but there can be, and the exhibition can be, too, if
Mademoiselle will make haste to pin her brother's pictures to the walls
of the yellow _salon_. With a hammer and a few tacks--_voila_ the thing
is done. What does Mademoiselle say?"

Mademoiselle said "Yes--yes!" to her part of the programme. But what of
the millionaire monsieur? Would he not balk? Would he not refuse to be
bothered?

Madame was absolutely confident that he would not do these disappointing
things. She was so confident that I vaguely suspected she had something
up her sleeve: but time pressed, and instead of Sherlock Holmesing I
darted to my work. Afterward she confessed, with pride rather than
repentance. She described graphically how the face of the monsieur had
fallen when she asked him to look at an exhibition of pictures; how he
had begun to make an excuse that he must be off at once to the
cathedral; and how she had ventured to cut him short by remarking,
"Mademoiselle the sister of the artist, she who will show the work, ah,
it is a _jeune fille_ of the most _romantic_ beauty!" On hearing this,
the monsieur had said no more about the cathedral, but had ordered the
glass of milk.

In fifteen minutes the exhibition (consisting of six sketches!) was
ready in the showroom of the hotel, the yellow salon which had been
occupied as a bedchamber one night by the Empress Eugenie, and was
always kept locked except on gala occasions. I, not knowing how I had
been over-praised to the audience, was also ready, quivering with the