“But see here”–––objected Travers Gladwin.
“Not a word now,” his friend choked him off. “If you don’t like it you don’t have to stay, but I’m going to take you in hand and show you a time you’re not used to.”
“But I don’t”–––
“Don’t let’s argue about it,” said Barnes, lightly. 69 “You called me in here to take charge of things and I’m taking charge. Just to change the subject, tell me something about your paintings. This one, for instance––who is that haughty looking old chap?”
Whitney Barnes had planted himself with legs spread wide apart in front of one of the largest portraits in the room, a life-size painting of an aristocratic looking old man who seemed on the point of strangling in his stock.
Travers Gladwin turned to the painting and said with an unmistakable note of pride:
“The original Gladwin, my great-grandfather. Painted more than a hundred years ago by Gilbert Stuart.”
“I guess you beat me, Travers––the original Barnes hadn’t discovered mustard a hundred years ago. But I say, here’s a Gainsborough, ‘The Blue Boy.’ By George! that’s a stunner! Worth a small fortune, I suppose.”
Whitney Barnes had crossed the room and stood before the most striking looking portrait in the collection, a tall, handsome boy in a vividly blue costume of the Gainsborough period.
The owner of “The Blue Boy” turned around, cast a fleeting glimpse at the portrait and turned away with a peculiar grimace.