Mark had copied cleverly Pynsent's bold signature; below it in small script was: "per M. S."
Pynsent bit his lip, frowning. The others stared at Mark, who met the startled interrogation of their raised brows with a nervous laugh.
"The f-f-feeling you speak of," he turned to Saphir, "is his," he indicated Pynsent. "I cannot s-send it to the Salon as my work, but I shall k-keep it and v-value it as long as I live."
Saphir held out his hand.
"My friend," he said in his own tongue, "if you were not an Angliche, I should ask to have the honour of embracing you."
"He's a quixotic fool," Pynsent growled; "I never touched the canvas."
The others vanished, put to flight by an intuition that something was about to happen. Mark addressed Saphir.
"When you were here last you s-said to a friend of mine that it was fortunate for me, that I had private means. You are my master; you have seen everything I have done. This, you understand, does not c-c-count. Pynsent knows my work, too, every line of it. I ask you both: Am I w-w-wasting my time?"
Neither answered.
"No mediocre success will content me," continued Mark. "I ask you again: Am I w-w-wasting my time?"