He smiled again, and she noticed how white his teeth were.
“Well, not very much. The English do things from duty, but their hearts they keep to themselves. And their Art—well, that is really amusing!”
“I don't know much about Art,” Noel murmured.
“It is the world to me,” said the painter, and was silent, drawing with increased pace and passion.
“It is so difficult to get subjects,” he remarked abruptly. “I cannot afford to pay models, and they are not fond of me painting out of doors. If I had always a subject like you! You—you have a grief, have you not?”
At that startling little question, Noel looked up, frowning.
“Everybody has, now.”
The painter grasped his chin; his eyes had suddenly become tragical.
“Yes,” he said, “everybody. Tragedy is daily bread. I have lost my family; they are in Belgium. How they live I do not know.”
“I'm sorry; very sorry, too, if we aren't nice to you, here. We ought to be.”