s and a black apron. Now a third man-servant
entered, bearing an enormous silver-gilt tray on which were
multitudinous bottles, glasses, decanters, and jugs. George comprehended
that _aperitifs_ were being offered. The tray contained enough cocktails
and other combinations, some already mingled and some not, to produce a
factitious appetite in the stomachs of a whole platoon. The girls
declined, Miss Wheeler declined, the Frenchman declined, George declined
(from prudence and diffidence); only Lucas took an _aperitif_, and he
took it, as George admitted, in style. The man-servant, superbly
indifferent to refusals, marched processionally off with the loaded
tray. The great principle of conspicuous ritualistic waste had been
illustrated in a manner to satisfy the most exacting standard of the
leisured class; and incidentally a subject of talk was provided.

George observed the name of 'Renoir' on the gorgeous frame of a gorgeous
portrait in oils of the hostess.

"Is that a Renoir?" he asked the taciturn Miss Wheeler, who seemed to
jump at the opening with relief.

"Yes," she said, with her slight lisp. "I'm glad you noticed it. Come
and look at it. Do you think it's a good one? Do you like Renoir?"

By good fortune George had seen a Renoir or two in Paris under the
guidance of Mr. Enwright. They stared at the portrait together.

"It's awfully distinguished," he decided, employing a useful adjective
which he had borrowed from Mr. Enwright.

"Isn't it!" she said, turning her wondrous complexion towards him, and
admiring his adjective. "I have a Boldini too."

He followed her across the room to the Boldini portrait of herself,
which was dazzling in its malicious flattery.

"And here's a Nicholson," she said.

Those three portraits were the most striking pictures in the _salon_,
but there were others of at least equal value.

"Are you interested in fans?" she demanded, and pulled down a switch
which illuminated the interior of a large cabinet full of fans. She
pointed out fans painted by Lami, Glaize, Jacquemart. "That one is
supposed to be a Lancret," she said. "But I'm not sure about it, and I
don't know anybody that is. Here's the latest book on the subject." She
indicated Lady Charlotte Schreiber's work in two volumes which, bound in
vellum and gold, lay on a table. "But of course it only deals with
English fans. However, Conder is going to do me a couple. He was here
yesterday to see me about them. Of course y