“Shall I tell you something?” asked Toto, who had been slowly making up his mind as the painter prattled.
“Why, yes!”
“Well, you remember, when I met you first, you asked me what my father was. I said he had a shop. Well, I told you a lie.”
“Ma foi! why not? What do I care what your father is?—you are a good fellow. That is enough for me. We all boast a bit, we artists.”
“I was not exactly boasting,” said Toto, knocking the ash off his cigarette in a nervous manner. “My father made all his money out of a bank.”
“You don’t mean to say he is a banker!” said Garnier, opening his eyes in astonishment, for a banker to Garnier was a much more extraordinary person than even one of those cherubs he talked about.
“No; not exactly a banker: he was a partner in a great bank. He was always awfully ashamed of the bank. He is dead, you know.”
“Ashamed of being a banker!” gasped Garnier. “What sort of man was he?”
“He was an awfully funny old fellow. I can just remember him. He scarcely ever spoke to me; he was very stiff and straight, and he used to paint his face and wear stays.”
“He was mad, then?” said Garnier.