Aristide appealed to his host. "But he is unreasonable, _cher ami_. He must play his _rôle_. M. Poiron has been telephoned for. He can't possibly stay here. Surely five hundred pounds is worth one little night of discomfort? And there are a legion of hotels in London." "Five hundred pounds!" exclaimed M. Poiron. "_Qu'est-ce que vous chantez là?_ I want more than five hundred pounds." "Then you're jolly well not going to get it," cried Mr. Smith, in a rage. "And as for you"--he turned on Aristide--"I'll wring your infernal neck yet." "Calm yourself, calm yourself!" smiled Aristide, who was enjoying himself hugely. At this moment the door opened and Miss Christabel appeared. On seeing the decorated stranger she started with a little "Oh!" of surprise. "I beg your pardon." Mr. Smith's angry face wreathed itself in smiles. "This, my darling, is M. Poiron, the eminent Paris expert, who has been good enough to come and give us his opinion on the picture." M. Poiron bowed. Aristide advanced. "Mademoiselle, your appearance is like a mirage in a desert." She smiled indulgently and turned to her father. "I've been wondering what had become of you. Harry has been here for the last half-hour." "Bring him in, dear child, bring him in!" said Mr. Smith, with all the heartiness of the fine old English gentleman. "Our good friends are dying to meet him." The girl flickered out of the room like a sunbeam (the phrase is Aristide's), and the three precious rascals put their heads together in a hurried and earnest colloquy. Presently Miss Christabel returned, and with her came the Honourable Harry Ralston, a tall, soldierly fellow, with close-cropped fair curly hair and a fair moustache, and frank blue eyes that, even in Parliament, had seen no harm in his fellow-creatures. Aristide's magical vision caught him wincing ever so little at Mr. Smith's effusive greeting and overdone introductions. He shook Aristide warmly by the hand. "You have a beauty there, Baron, a perfect beauty," said he, with the insane ingenuousness of youth. "I wonder how you can manage to part with it." "_Ma foi_," said Aristide, with his back against the end of the dining-table and gazing at the masterpiece. "I have so many at the Château de Mireilles. When one begins to collect, you know--and when one's grandfather and father have had also the divine mania----" "You were saying, M. le Baron," said M. Poiron of Paris, "that your respected grandfather bought this direct from Corot himself." "A commission," said Aristide. "My grandfather was a patron of Corot." "Do you like it, dear?" asked the Honourable Harry. "Oh, yes!" replied the girl, fervently. "It is beautiful. I feel like Harry about it." She turned to Aristide. "How can you part with it? Were you really in earnest when you said you would like me to come and see your collection?" "For me," said Aristide, "it would be a visit of enchantment."