“No,” said Roger quietly. “I purpose to keep it.”
“You certainly have a strange way of doing business,” said Richmond with resolute amiability.
“I don’t do business,” replied Roger.
Richmond waved his hand. “Oh—call it what you like. Artists paint pictures for money.”
“I don’t know about others,” said Roger. “But I paint for my own amusement. And of my work I sell enough to enable me to live.”
“Very fine—very fine,” said Richmond, in the tone of a man who doesn’t believe a word of it, but politely wishes to seem impressed. “I saw from the beginning of our acquaintance that you were an unusual man. I’ve thought about you a great deal”—with a sly smile—“naturally.”
Roger made a slight inclination of his head.
“I owe you an apology for the way I acted the other day. And I make it. I lost my temper—a bad habit I have.”
“Yes, it is a bad habit,” said Roger dryly. “A particularly bad one for a man in your position, I should say.”
“How in my position?” inquired Richmond, surprised.