“Perhaps you don’t realize, my girl, that I’m highly sensitive.”
“You seldom seem so. But, of course, I realize that you couldn’t paint as you do unless you were.”
“Instead of using the word supposition in connexion with a fellow like myself your discrimination should have led you to choose the word instinct.”
“Oh?”
“Let’s cross over. Catch on!”
They crossed to the side of the road next to Hyde Park.
“My instinct tells me that the magnificently handsome man who stared at you to-night is of the tribe that lives by making those who are indiscreetly susceptible to beauty pay heavy tribute, in hard cash or its equivalent. He is probably a king in the underworld. Perhaps I really will paint him. No, I’m not coming in.”
He left her on the doorstep of the hotel and tramped off towards Chelsea.