“I’ve changed things around a bit,” Harry explained. “Moved several paintings to other rooms, to make space for the new ones. They deserve to be in here.”

Robert saw the Renoir immediately. It was hanging above the fireplace, and he hurried across the room. “Oh my God, this is spectacular!” he exclaimed, drinking in the painting. “A feast for the eyes. I love Renoir’s women and men; they come to life. What I mean is that he brings them to life. How vividly alive this is, Harry.”

Adrian and Harry joined him, and gazed at the portrait of a woman dancing with a man in a garden.

Robert said, “I’ve always wanted to buy one of his street scenes, as I call them. Renoir is so good at capturing everyday life. Just look at it, all his many lovely blues and pinks, and the girl’s red bonnet, her fellow’s yellow straw hat.” He turned to Harry, and added, “What’s the name of this painting?”

“Dance at Bougival,” Harry answered. “It was painted in 1883, and it’s part of a series he did, all of them outside in those gardens.”

Nodding, Robert went on, “His colors are always so clear, so pure, and just imagine, he suffers terribly from arthritis, yet he goes to his easel every day and creates such masterpieces as this. Paintings others can enjoy.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that,” Adrian said, referring to the illness. “That sounds like a true triumph over adversity, physical pain, to be exact.”

“It is,” Harry remarked. “Renoir also has a sad and troubled life in many ways, but he still paints hundreds of canvases, each of them so uniquely his.”

Turning to face his old friend, Robert said, “Congratulations, I’m glad you were able to get this. Renoirs are very popular at the moment, getting scarce. I have one in Yorkshire. I shall look for another right away.”

“I have a good dealer in Paris. He’s always done well by me. Now, come over to this side of the room where I’ve hung one of the Cézannes,” Harry said.

Robert nodded, an eager expression on his face. He strode across the floor, his eyes lighting up as he gazed at the Cézanne. “What a wonderful example of his outdoor scenes, all these greens mingled together … a forest that truly beckons you into it. I have a sense of its coolness, as well as its beauty, its calmness.” It reminded him of the grounds at Bolton Manor. He suddenly felt a pang of longing to be there, to breathe the clear Yorkshire air, gaze upon the dales that surrounded his estate, the woodlands that edged his land.

“It’s called The Forest and Cézanne painted it in 1890, probably finished it in 1892, thereabouts. I couldn’t resist it. I feel peaceful when I look at it.”