The lubricant voice rolled on while Rentoul Smiles manipulated the camera. He clasped the bulb again and again threw it dramatically away.
"I'm through!" he said. "Don't expect anything very grand, Miss Isabel. What I've been trying to do this afternoon is my interpretation of you as I've studied your personality in your speeches. If I believed wholly in your cause, or if I wholly disbelieved in it, my work would not have been good. Any value that it has will be due to the sympathetic impartiality of my spiritual attitude. Although"—he menaced her with the licensed familiarity of a philosopher—"although, lady, I must say that I felt you were working against me all the time.... This way!"
(Edward Henry, recalling the comparative simplicity of the London photographer at Wilkins's, thought: "How profoundly they understand photography in America!")
Isabel Joy rose and glanced at the watch in her bracelet, then followed the direction of the male hand and vanished.
Rentoul Smiles turned instantly to the other doorway.
"How do, Rent?" said Seven Sachs, coming forward.
"How do, Seven?" Mr. Rentoul Smiles winked.
"This is my good friend, Alderman Machin, the theatre-manager from London."
"Glad to meet you, sir."
"She's not gone, has she?" asked Sachs, hurriedly.