M. Berigny bowed, ceremoniously. Mr. Lovell only nodded--his thoughts were behind the screen. The Vicomte turned to his friend. "Victor, I have explained to you that I have already had the pleasure of an interview with Mr. Gerald Lovell." M. Berigny bowed. "I have also explained to you that I have desired him to inform me by whose authority he exhibits a portrait of my wife in a public exhibition. To that he has replied that his picture, 'A Vision of the Night,' is not a portrait of my wife. I request you, Victor, to state, in Mr. Gerald Lovell's presence, whether that picture, in your opinion, is or is not a portrait of my wife." "Certainly, it is a portrait." M. Berigny's accent was more marked than the Vicomte's, but still he did speak English. "I thank you, Victor. It remains for me to once more request, in your presence, Mr. Gerald Lovell to explain how it was that he happened to dream of the face of my wife last August, in the Hotel de Flandre, at Spa. Mr. Gerald Lovell, I have the honour to await your explanation." The Vicomte, his arms crossed upon his chest, his left foot a little protruding, his head thrown back, awaited the explanation. Mr. Lovell's thoughts ran screenwards. "What the deuce shall I do if he discovers her behind the screen?" "Monsieur, I am waiting." "If he does discover her--there'll be a row." "I still am waiting, Mr. Gerald Lovell." With each repetition of the statement the Vicomte's tone became more acidulated. The artist arrived at a sudden resolution. "Then I am afraid, Vicomte, that you will have to wait." The Vicomte looked at the artist with an evident inclination to add a cubit to his own stature. "Is it possible that I understand your meaning, Mr. Gerald Lovell?" "My language is sufficiently simple." "In France, Mr. Gerald Lovell, an artist is supposed to be a gentleman." "And so in England, Vicomte. And therefore, when an artist is interrupted at his work by another gentleman, he feels himself at liberty to beg that other gentleman--to excuse him." Mr. Lovell waved his hand, affably, in the direction of the door. The Vicomte's countenance assumed a peculiar pallor. "You are a curious person, Mr. Gerald Lovell." His friend interposed. "Philippe, you had better leave the matter to me." M. Berigny approached the painter--with a ramrod down his back. "I have the honour, Monsieur, to request from you the name of a friend." "Of a friend? What for?" "Ah, Monsieur--to arrange the preliminaries!" "What preliminaries?" "Is it that Monsieur amuses himself?" "Is it possible that you suppose that I am going to fight a duel?" "Monsieur intends, then, to offer an explanation to my friend?" "M. Berigny, I do not wish to say to you anything uncourteous, or anything unworthy an English gentleman; but I do beg you to believe that, because you choose to be an idiot, and your friend chooses to be an idiot, it does not follow that I choose to be an idiot, too." "Monsieur!"