At last the first of Evelyn’s pictures was hoisted on the easel.

“Good God!” isn’t it a miserable sight seeing her pictures going to whomsoever cares to bid a few pounds.  But if I were to buy the whole collection—­”

“I quite understand, and every one is a piece of your life.”

The pictures continued to go by.

“I can’t stand this much longer.”

“Hush!”

The Boucher drawing went up.  It was turned to the right and to the left:  a beautiful girl lying on her belly, her legs parted slightly.  Therefore the bidding began briskly, but for some unaccountable reason it died away.  “Somebody must have declared it to be a forgery,” Owen whispered to Harding, and a moment after it became Harding’s property for eighty-seven pounds—­“The exact sum I paid for it years ago.  How very extraordinary!”

“A portrait by Manet—­a hundred pounds offered, one hundred,” and two grey eyes in a face of stone searched the room for bidders.  “One hundred pounds offered, five, thirty, thirty-five, forty, fifty,” and so on to two hundred.

“Her portrait will cost me a thousand,” Owen whispered to Harding, and, catching the auctioneer’s eyes, he nodded again.  Seven hundred.  “Will they never stop bidding?  That fellow yonder is determined to run up the picture.”  Eight hundred and fifty!  The auctioneer raised his hammer, and the watchful eyes went round the room in search of some one who would pay another ten pounds for Evelyn’s portrait by Manet.  Eight hundred and fifty—­eight hundred and fifty.  Down came the hammer.  The auctioneer whispered “Sir Owen Asher” to his clerk.

“It’s a mercy I got it for that; I was afraid it would go over the thousand.  Now, come, we have got our two pictures.  I’m sick of the place.”

Harding had thought of staying on, just to see the end of the sale, but it was easier to yield to Owen than to argue with him; besides, he was anxious to see how the drawing would look on his wall.  Of course it was a Boucher.  Stupid remarks were always floating about Christie’s.  But he would know for certain as soon as he saw the drawing in a new light.

He was muttering “It is genuine enough,” when his servant opened the door—­“Sir Owen Asher.”

“I see you have hung up the drawing.  It looks very well, doesn’t it.  You’ll never regret having taken my advice.”

“Taken your advice!” Harding was about to answer.  “But what is the use in irritating the poor man?  He is so much in love he hardly knows what he is saying.  Owen Asher advising me as to what I should buy!”

Owen went over and looked into Harding’s Ingres.