“I confess I have a lack of imagination when it comes to an appreciation of the artistic temperament.” Marden said this so slyly that Serle at once begged his pardon.
“After all, we are not at Delmonico’s just to thrash out a stale question. Pray go on—your story interests me strangely.”
“It’s not very interesting—that’s all I know. The woman left the man——”
“For another?” calmly interjected Vincent.
“Not at all, not at all—that is, not at the time.” The lawyer fumbled his glass, his expression overcast.
“You know what strange creatures women are. I had the greatest difficulty in persuading my client to make up her mind. She suffered, yet she cared for the fellow——”
Serle impatiently asked: “But you haven’t revealed what the fellow did to her—what his special crime! Didn’t he give her a good home?”
“My dear sir! A good home when he turned night into day! A good home when he seldom put brush to canvas! A good home—why, I thought I told you he was too friendly with his models.”
“His models! A portraitist! Do you mean his sitters? Did he flirt with them? If he did so he was a fool, for he was killing the goose that laid the—No, I’ll not be so impolite. I meant to say he would endanger his reputation.” Marden dryly laughed.
“That’s good—reputation is good. My client informed me, and she is a serious woman, that she never met an artist who could be relied upon. And she knew, for she was one herself.”