He saw how the others looked at him when he made this heartless speech, so he added:
“You remember those old stony hills of New Hampshire? Well, I was reared there, and perhaps that accounts for so much flint and grit in my make up.”
“But mine host,” Robert began, “where is the other rare treat you promised—your latest portrait, that wears a hectic flush and nothing more?”
The others, who were listening to the colloquy burst into ripples of merriment.
“Ah, so I did promise,” and he seized his glass, and emptied it at a gulp.
A gust of cold mist, mingled with fine snow, puffed into the brilliant rooms, and stirred the stifling air that was saturated with exhalations of spirits and tobacco smoke.
“And you really would like to see my creation—‘A Nude Daughter of Our Land.’”
“Nothing would delight us more,” they declared.
He summoned the servant and ordered him to draw the curtain aside.