“I can’t explain,” he broke off.
Mrs. Davant in turn addressed herself to Claudia.
“People think it’s so odd,” she complained. “So many of the artists here are anxious to meet him; they’ve all been so charming about the pictures; and several of our American friends have come over from London expressly for the exhibition. I told every one that he would be here for the opening—there was a private view, you know—and they were so disappointed—they wanted to give him an ovation; and I didn’t know what to say. What am I to say?” she abruptly ended.
“There’s nothing to say,” said Keniston slowly.
“But the exhibition closes the day after to-morrow.”
“Well, I sha’n’t close—I shall be here,” he declared with an effort at playfulness. “If they want to see me—all these people you’re kind enough to mention—won’t there be other chances?”
“But I wanted them to see you among your pictures—to hear you talk about them, explain them in that wonderful way. I wanted you to interpret each other, as Professor Wildmarsh says!”
“Oh, hang Professor Wildmarsh!” said Keniston, softening the commination with a smile. “If my pictures are good for anything they oughtn’t to need explaining.”
Mrs. Davant stared. “But I thought that was what made them so interesting!” she exclaimed.
Keniston looked down. “Perhaps it was,” he murmured.