“The anti-climax,” Mr. Bigger replied, shaking his head mournfully. “Giangolini had bargained to elope with fifty thousand sequins. Lady Hurtmore didn’t, on reflection, much relish the idea of love in a cottage. Woman’s place, she decided at last, is in the home--with the family jewels. But would Lord Hurtmore see the matter in precisely the same light? That was the question, the alarming, disquieting question. She decided to go and see for herself. “She got back just in time for dinner. ‘His Illustrissimous Excellency is waiting in the dining-room,’ said the majordomo. The tall doors were flung open before her; she swam in majestically, chin held high--but with what a terror in her soul! Her husband was standing by the fireplace. He advanced to meet her. “‘I was expecting you, madam,’ he said, and led her to her place. “That was the only reference he ever made to the incident. In the afternoon he sent a servant to fetch the portrait from the painter’s studio. It formed part of their baggage when, a month later, they set out for England. The story has been passed down with the picture from one generation to the next. I had it from an old friend of the family when I bought the portrait last year.” Mr. Bigger threw his cigarette end into the grate. He flattered himself that he had told that tale very well. “Very interesting,” said the Lord of the Manor, “very interesting indeed. Quite historical, isn’t it? One could hardly do better with Nell Gwynn or Anne Boleyn, could one?” Mr. Bigger smiled vaguely, distantly. He was thinking of Venice--the Russian countess staying in his pension, the tufted tree in the courtyard outside his bedroom, that strong, hot scent she used (it made you catch your breath when you first smelt it), and there was the bathing on the Lido, and the gondola, and the dome of the Salute against the hazy sky, looking just as it looked when Guardi painted it. How enormously long ago and far away it all seemed now! He was hardly more than a boy then; it had been his first great adventure. He woke up with a start from his reverie. The Lord of the Manor was speaking. “How much, now, would you want for that picture?” he asked. His tone was detached, off-hand; he was a rare one for bargaining. “Well,” said Mr. Bigger, quitting with reluctance the Russian countess, the paradisaical Venice of five-and-twenty years ago, “I’ve asked as much as a thousand for less important works than this. But I don’t mind letting this go to you for seven-fifty.” The Lord of the Manor whistled. “Seven-fifty?” he repeated. “It’s too much.” “But, my dear sir,” Mr. Bigger protested, “think what you’d have to pay for a Rembrandt of this size and quality--twenty thousand at least. Seven hundred and fifty isn’t at all too much. On the contrary, it’s very little considering the importance of the picture you’re getting. You have a good enough judgment to see that this is a very fine work of art.”