ng 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 fiance! 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."

"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."

"Not sell it? What the--what do you mean?" asked Mr. Smith, striving to
mellow the gathering thunder on his brow.

"I do not sell," said Aristide. "Listen, my dear friends!" He was in the
seventh heaven of happiness--the principal man, the star, taking the
centre of the stage. "I have