Again there was a pause, and the chatter of a couple of Malays in the street became louder, and then fainter, as the speakers drew near and passed away.
“Glaston,” said Markham at length, “did you remove the pictures from Government House?”
“They are in one of my rooms,” said Glaston. “Would you think it a piece of idle curiosity if I were to step upstairs and take a look at that particular work?”
“You could not see it by lamplight. You can study them all in the morning.”
“But I feel in the mood just now, and you know how much depends upon the mood.”
“My room is open,” said Glaston. “But the idea that has possessed you is absurd.”
“I dare say, I dare say, but I have become interested in all that you have told me; I must try and—and understand the symbolism.”
He left the balcony before Mr. Glaston had made up his mind as to whether there was a touch of sarcasm in his voice uttering the final sentence.
“Not worse than the rest of the uneducated world,” murmured the Art prophet condescendingly.
But in Mr. Glaston's private room upstairs Oswin Markham was standing holding a lighted lamp up to that interesting picture and before that wonderful symbolic expression upon the face of the figure; the rest of the room was in darkness. He looked up to the face that the lamplight gloated over. The remainder of the picture was full of reflections of the light.