“Yes,” he said, “it wanted that. All the rest is excellent. That bit of imitation of Turner comes out well. The man wants more feeling in the face—a little more of the unmasked—but this dwarfs all the rest, as it should. Armstrong, lad, it is the picture of the year. There,” he continued, “my pipe’s out, and I think I’ll go. But be careful, lad. Don’t touch that face more than you can help, and only when she is here.”
Dale laughed bitterly.
“Why do you laugh? Is it such bad advice?”
“Yes.”
And he partly told his friend how the work was done—leaving out all allusion to Cornel—Pacey hearing him quietly to the end.
“I am not surprised,” he said at last. “What you say only endorses my ideas. Good-bye, lad; I’ll go.”
He rose from the chair, tapped the ashes out of his pipe, looking at them thoughtfully, and picked up his hat from where he had cast it upon the dusty floor. He then turned to face Dale, holding out his hand, but the artist did not see it, and sat buried in thought.
“Good-bye, old lad,” said Pacey again.
Dale sprang to his feet, saw the outstretched hand, and drew back, shaking his head.
“Shake hands,” said Pacey again, more loudly.