“Very well.” The greater painter spoke with the painfully slow control of one who has taken himself in hand, selecting tone and words to safeguard against any betrayal into sudden outburst. “As long as it’s merely you and I, George, we know enough of each other. When it becomes a matter of meeting your friends, your own people, you force me to tell you something more.”
“Why?” Steele demanded; almost hotly. “I don’t ask my friends for references or bonds!”
Saxon smiled, but persistently repeated:
“You met me in Mexico, seven months ago. What, in God’s name, do you know about me?”
The other looked up, surprised.
“Why, I know,” he said, “I know——” Then, suddenly wondering what he did know, he stopped, and added lamely: “I know that you are a landscape-painter of national reputation and a damned good fellow.”
“And, aside from that, nothing,” came the quick response. “What I am on the side, preacher, porch-climber, bank-robber—whatever else, you don’t know.” The speaker’s voice was hard.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that, before you present me to your friends, to such people for example—well such people as I met to-day—you have the right to ask; and the unfortunate part of it is that, when you ask, I can’t answer.”
“You mean——” the Kentuckian halted in perplexed silence.