“Incidentally, that figure of the fat artist who is drawing on a little ivory tablet is Furniss to the life, now that I know what we know,” said Thresher.

“Francis was not wanting in humour. I admit it. He loved a joke and particularly a dark joke that not everybody else understood,” said Darcourt. “But that again is an argument on my side. Would a man who intended to deceive put such a portrait of a known artist—and an artist at work—in such a picture as this? I repeat: this is not a picture for anyone but the painter himself. It is a confession, a deeply personal confession.”

“Addison, what would you say was the market value of this picture, if we didn’t know what Professor Darcourt has told us?” said Princess Amalie.

“Only Christie’s or Sotheby’s could answer that question. They know what they can get. A good many millions, certainly.”

“We were ready to sell it to the National Gallery of Canada a few years ago for three millions,” said Prince Max.

“That was when we wanted to raise some capital to expand Amalie’s business. Aylwin Ross was the Director then, but at the last minute he couldn’t raise the money, and not long after he died.”

“That would have been cheap,” said Thresher.

“We were rather under the spell of Ross,” said the Princess.

“He was a most beautiful man. We offered him several pieces, at an inclusive price. This was by far the cheapest. But in the end they went to other buyers. We decided to keep this one. We like it so much.”

“And you have so many others,” said Thresher, not altogether kindly. “But three million was certainly a bargain. Now, if it weren’t for what we have heard this evening, you could treble or quadruple that money.”

This was Darcourt’s moment. “Would you sell now, if you could get a price that pleased you?”

“Sell it as a distinguished fake?”

“Sell it as the greatest work of The Alchemical Master, now known to be the late Francis Cornish? Let me tell you what I have in mind.”

With all the persuasive skill he could summon up, Darcourt told them what he had in mind.

“Of course, it’s extremely conditional,” he said when he had finished, and the Prince and the Princess and Thresher were deep in consideration.

“Very iffy indeed,” said Thresher. “But it’s a hell of a good idea. I don’t know when I’ve heard of a better in forty years in the art world.”

“There is no hurry,” said Darcourt. “Are you willing to leave it with me?”

And that was where the matter rested when Darcourt flew back to Canada.

“I really think one of the names must be Arthur. After all, it was my father’s name, and it’s my name, and it’s a good name. Not unfamiliar; not peculiar; easy to pronounce; has good associations, not the least of them being this opera.”

“I entirely agree,” said Hollier. “As a godfather, with a right to give the boy a name of my choice, I declare for Arthur.”

“No regrets about Clement?” said Arthur.

“It’s not a name I’ve ever liked much.”

“Well, thank heaven one name is settled. Now, Nilla, you’re the godmother. What name have you chosen?”

“I have a weakness for Haakon, because it was my father’s name, and it is a name of great honour in Norway. But it might embarrass a Canadian child. So also with Olaf, which is another favourite of mine. So—what about Nikolas? He need not even spell it with a ‘k’ if he doesn’t want to. A fine saint’s name, and I think every child should have a saints name, even if it isn’t used.”

“Brilliant, Nilla. And eminently reasonable. Nikolas let it be, and I’ll undertake that he uses the ‘k’ to keep him in mind of you.”

“Oh, I’ll keep him in mind of me. I intend to take my work as godmother very seriously.”

“Well then—Geraint?”

This, thought Darcourt, is where the trouble lies. To be melodramatic, this is where the canker gnaws. Geraint has all the Welsh passion for genealogy, and names, and he wants to keep signalling that he is this child’s true father. This is going to call heavily on Arthur’s skill as a Chairman.

“Of course, I think at once of my own name,” said Powell. “A beautiful, poetic, sweetly-sounding name which I bear with pleasure. But Sim bach advises strongly against it. Of course I wish to confer a Welsh name on the boy, but you all keep nattering about how hard they are to pronounce. Hard for whom? Not for me. To me, you see, a name has great significance; it colours a child’s whole outlook on itself and gives it a role to play. Aneurin, for instance; a great bardic name. He of the Flowing Muse—”

“Yes, but bound to be pronounced ‘An Urine’ by the unregenerate Saxons,” said Arthur. “Remember poor Nye Bevan and what he went through. The Sitwells always called him Aneurism.”

“The Sitwells had a very vulgar streak,” said Powell.

“Unfortunately, so have lots of people.”

“There are other splendid names. Aidan, for instance; now there’s a saint for you, Nilla! And Selwyn, which means great ardour and zeal; that would spur him on, wouldn’t it? Or Owain, the Well Born; suggesting a distinguished descent, particularly on the father’s side. Or Hugo, a name very popular in Wales; I propose it rather than the Welsh Huw, which might look odd to an uninstructed eye; it is the Latin form. But the one I propose with pride is Gilfaethwy, not one of the greatest heroes of the Mabinogion but especially appropriate to this child, for reasons that need not be chattered about now. Gilfaethwy! Nobly wild, wouldn’t you say?”

“Pronounce it again, will you?” said Arthur.

“It is simplicity itself. Geel-va-ith-ooee, with the accent lightly on the ‘va’. Isn’t it splendid, boyos? Doesn’t it smack of the great days of legend, before Arthur, when demigods trod the earth, dragons lurked in caves, and mighty magicians like Math Mathonwy dealt out reward and punishment? Powerful stuff, let me tell you.”

“How do you spell that?” said Hollier, ready with pencil and paper. Geraint spelled it.

“Looks barbarous on the page,” said Hollier.

Powell took this very badly. “Barbarous, you say? Barbarous, in a country where every name from every part of the earth, and ridiculous invented names, are seen in the birth announcements every day? Barbarous! By God, Hollier, let me tell you that the Welsh had enjoyed five centuries of Roman civilization when your ancestors were still eating goat with the skin on and wiping their arses with bunches of thistles! Barbarous! Am I to hear that from a pack of morlocks who can think of nothing except what is easy for them to pronounce or has some sentimental association? I pity your ignorance and despise you.”

“That, by the way, is a Dickensian quotation,” said Hollier. “I’m sure you could find something more bardic to express your contempt.”

“Now, now, let’s not come to harsh words,” said Darcourt. “Let’s make a decision, because I have things to say to you, parents and godparents, and we must make up our minds.”

But Powell was in a black sulk, and it took a lot of cajoling to make him speak.

“Let the child have the commonest of Welsh names, if you must have it so,” he said at last. “Let his name be David. Not even Dafydd, mark you, but bloody English David.”

“Now that’s a good name,” said Gunilla.

“And another saint’s name,” said Darcourt. “David let it be. Now—what order? Arthur Nikolas David?”

“No. It would spell AND on his luggage,” said Hollier, who seemed to be suffering an unexpected bout of practicality

“His luggage! What a consideration,” said Powell. “If you insist on this damned reductive nonsense, why don’t you call the child SIN?”

Arthur and Darcourt looked at each other bleakly. Was Geraint going to let the cat out of the bag? This was what nobody wanted, except Powell, whose Welsh dander was up.

“Sin?” said Hollier. “You’re joking. Why sin?”