“But it’s not finished,” replied the big artist, gentle as the voice of a great river flowing inevitably on its way.
“No matter,” said Richmond graciously. “We’ll take a look at it, anyhow.”
“Oh, no, we shan’t,” said Beatrice, laughing. “He has a rule against it, father. And he’s like iron where his rules are concerned. But you’ll give us some chocolate, won’t you, Mr. Wade?”
“Delighted,” said Roger, with a gesture inviting them to precede him into the studio.
Richmond looked round him scrutinizingly. “Nothing to distract your mind from your work, I see. That’s the way my office is fitted up. I’m always suspicious of chaps surrounded by elegant fittings.” And he gave Roger an approving look that was flattering, if a trifle suggestive of superiority.
“It’s not wise to judge a man by any exteriors,” said Roger. “What he does—that is the only safe standard.”
Richmond reflected, nodded. “Yes,” said he. “Yes. Is that the picture?” He pointed one brown, bony hand at the sketch on the easel.
“No,” said Roger curtly, and he flung a drape over the sketch. Turning to Beatrice with rather formal friendliness, he inquired, “How is your mother?”
“Well—always well,” said Beatrice. “She sent you her best. But she’s cross with you for not coming to call.”
Richmond grinned sardonically. “From what I’ve heard of Wade,” said he, “he’s not the kind you find nestled among the petticoats with a little cup in his hand.” He smiled upon Roger. “In America, at least, you never see men who amount to anything at these social goings-on. In five years I’ve been to only one party in my own house, and to none in anybody else’s house.”