“Portrait any good?”
“No.”
Logan put down his frame and without a word to Oliver proceeded to wash up the tea-things. She stayed in her chair in the window and hummed.
To Mendel his friend seemed altered. He had lost his good-humour and something of his happy recklessness, and he was more concentrated and full of a wary self-consciousness.
He came out of the bedroom when the washing up was done and flung himself on the divan, stretched himself out, and said:—
“I’m tired; done up. Lord! What fools there are in the world! No more portraits for you, my boy; at least, not this side of thirty. Ten years good solid work ahead of you.”
He laughed.
“I told Cluny he must hurry up or you would slide off into portrait-painting. Dealers hate the mere sound of the word. He is going to hurry up. I’ve played you for all I am worth, and Cluny is in my pocket. Oh! I’m a man of destiny, I am.”
A snort and a giggle came from Oliver. Logan sat up.
“Leave the room!” he said.