But the anxious creature was not reassured. He pointed out that things had been stolen out of the Louvre, which was, he dared say, even better watched. And there was that marvellous cabinet on the landing, black lacquer with silver herons, which alone would repay a couple of burglars. A wheelbarrow, some old sacking, and they could trundle it off under people’s noses. “Have you thought it all out?” she asked in a cold whisper, while we three sat smoking to give ourselves a countenance (it was certainly no enjoyment) and wondering what we would hear next. No, he had not. But he confessed that for years and years he had been in love with that cabinet. And anyhow what was going to happen to the things? The world was greatly exercised by that problem. He turned slightly his beautifully groomed white head so as to address Mr. Blunt directly. “I had the pleasure of meeting your mother lately.” Mr. Blunt took his time to raise his eyebrows and flash his teeth at him before he dropped negligently, “I can’t imagine where you could have met my mother.” “Why, at Bing’s, the curio-dealer,” said the other with an air of the heaviest possible stupidity. And yet there was something in these few words which seemed to imply that if Mr. Blunt was looking for trouble he would certainly get it. “Bing was bowing her out of his shop, but he was so angry about something that he was quite rude even to me afterwards. I don’t think it’s very good for _Madame votre mère_ to quarrel with Bing. He is a Parisian personality. He’s quite a power in his sphere. All these fellows’ nerves are upset from worry as to what will happen to the Allègre collection. And no wonder they are nervous. A big art event hangs on your lips, my dear, great Rita. And by the way, you too ought to remember that it isn’t wise to quarrel with people. What have you done to that poor Azzolati? Did you really tell him to get out and never come near you again, or something awful like that? I don’t doubt that he was of use to you or to your king. A man who gets invitations to shoot with the President at Rambouillet! I saw him only the other evening; I heard he had been winning immensely at cards; but he looked perfectly wretched, the poor fellow. He complained of your conduct—oh, very much! He told me you had been perfectly brutal with him. He said to me: ‘I am no good for anything, _mon cher_. The other day at Rambouillet, whenever I had a hare at the end of my gun I would think of her cruel words and my eyes would run full of tears. I missed every shot’ . . . You are not fit for diplomatic work, you know, _ma chère_. You are a mere child at it. When you want a middle-aged gentleman to do anything for you, you don’t begin by reducing him to tears. I should have thought any woman would have known that much. A nun would have known that much. What do you say? Shall I run back to Paris and make it up for you with Azzolati?”