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 you know him.  What a wonderful man!  The only really cosmopolitan artist in England, I say, now Beardsley’s dead.  I’ve got a Siegfried drawing by Beardsley.  He was a great friend of mine.  I adored him.”

“This is a fine thing,” said George, touching a bronze of a young girl on the same table as the books.

“You think so?” Miss Wheeler responded uncertainly.  “I suppose it is.  It’s a Gilbert.  He gave it me.  But do you really think it compares with this Barye?  It doesn’t, does it?” She directed him to another bronze of a crouching cheetah.