"Then may I say your your grandmother had an excellent eye for jewerelly." Théodore says, settling down into a chair. "And in itself worth £300 at least. But of course, I am not here to sell you back things that are rightfully yourself. That tiara was, I admit, one of the easier things to remove from France without diffeculty." He pauses, and gestures Aimé's attention over to a tall wardrobe against one wall. "That piece, fine craftsmenship, Bavarian made, had to be taken apart and carefully built into the side of a ship, for instance."
Théodore pauses, getting to his feet and carefully, politely, taking the tiara back from the young man. Close-up, Aimé Laurent was no more familiar to him than before, but Théodore knew he knew him, even if the faces of those not immortalised in marble were hardly his forté.
And then he remembered. This young Laurent had not been immortalised in marble, but had been captured, at least in part, by the oils and canvass of an artist. "Monsuier, if it is not too bold a question to ask, how has your family settled into life in England? Well, I hope?"