“Good-day,” said Seraphin.
Cartaret said “Good-day” as if it were a form of insult.
Seraphin’s hands tugged at his two wisps of whisker.
“You are not well, hein?”
“I was never better in my life,” snapped Cartaret, turning upon his friend a face that was peaked and drawn.
The Frenchman came timidly nearer.
“My friend,” he said, “I have completed my magnum opus. It has not sold quite so well as I hoped, not of course one thousandth of its value. That is this Spanish cow of a world. But I have three hundred francs. If you need——”
“Go away,” said Cartaret, looking at his empty easel. “Can’t you see I’m trying to begin work?”
Seraphin himself had suffered. His dignity was not offended: he kept it for only his creditors and other foes. He guessed that Cartaret was at last penniless, and he guessed rightly.
“Come, my friend,” he began; “none shall know. Will you not be so kind as to let me——”