“How?”
In a few concise words he explained, scanning the other’s face eagerly.
Gaston showed nothing. He had passed the apogee of irritation.
“A model?” he questioned drily.
“Well, if you put it that way. ‘Portrait’ sounds better. It shall be Gaston Belward, gentleman; but we will call it in public, ‘Monmouth the Trespasser.’”
Gaston did not wince. He had taken all the revenge he needed. The idea rather pleased him than other wise. He had instincts about art, and he liked pictures; statuary, poetry, romance; but he had no standards. He was keen also to see the life of the artist, to touch that aristocracy more distinguished by mind than manners.
“If that gives ‘clearance,’ yes. And your debt to me?”
“I owe you nothing. You find your own meaning in my words. I was railing, you were serious. Do not be serious. Assume it sometimes, if you will; be amusing mostly. So, you will let me paint you—on your own horse, eh?”
“That is asking much. Where?”
“Well, a sketch here this afternoon, while the thing is hot—if this damned headache stops! Then at my studio in London in the spring, or”—here he laughed—“in Paris. I am modest, you see.”