There was a general smile at the artists’ expense; and Adrien continued: 

“Rubens’ touch”—­examining the face—­“but—­what is this?” He pointed to a small weapon thrust into the girdle of the figure.

“That is a dagger,” said Alford.  “Here, where are the glasses?”

“Thanks,” said Adrien, “but I don’t require them.  It is a dagger, and a Florentine one at that.  Ah!  Lady Merivale, I’m afraid your picture is more a specimen of what a modern impostor can rise to than that of an old master.  That dagger is of comparatively modern fashion, certainly not earlier than the eighteenth century, while Rubens died in 1640.”

The two artists stared, as well they might, but were neither sufficiently acquainted with Leroy to express their surprise at his knowledge, nor had knowledge enough themselves to challenge his dates.

It was Lord Standon who spoke first.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed.  “Adrien going in for history!  Who would have thought it?  My dear fellow, why not give a lecture?”

“On the vanity of human hopes and the folly of friendship?” inquired Adrien, so coldly as to startle both the company and Lord Standon himself, who not being in Lady Constance’s confidence, was naturally at a loss for the reason of this sudden anger on the part of Leroy.  He drew back in surprise, but any further reference to the matter was stopped by the entry of Jasper Vermont.  As a matter of fact, he had arrived just in time to overhear Adrien’s last words.

“What’s that?” he cried, after he had greeted Lady Merivale.  “Was that Leroy declaiming against the world?  It’s for those in his position to bewail its vanities, while poor dev—­I beg your pardon, Lady Merivale—­poor men like myself can only cry for them.”

Adrien smiled.

“Quite right, Jasper.  I’m wrong, as usual.

“Mr. Vermont,” said Lord Merivale, “you remind me of the clown in the beloved pantomime of my youth.”

“An innocent memory that, at least, my lord,” returned Vermont, who never stayed his tongue in the matter of a repartee for lord or commoner.  “May I ask why?”

“You always enter the room with a joke or an epigram,” was the answer.

Mr. Vermont smiled.

“‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players,’” he quoted lightly, as he turned his attention to the unfortunate “Portrait of a gentleman.”  “Ah, what have we here—­another picture?  An old master, I presume?”

The artists looked pleased; it would seem as if even the great connoisseur himself was liable to make mistakes.

“It is ugly enough, in all conscience,” he continued bluntly.  “For my part, I am an utter philistine, and like my art to be the same as my furniture—­new, pretty to look at, and comfortable, and, for the life of me, I can’t fall in love with a snub-nosed Catherine de Medici, or a muscular apostle.  What is this?” He bent down to read the title.  “Ah!  ‘Portrait of a gentleman of the sixteenth century.’  Very valuable, I daresay, Lady Merivale?”