Arabian bowed to Miss Van Tuyn, still looking formal and as if she were a total stranger whom he had never set eyes on before. She bowed to him. As she did so she thought that he was a little older than she had supposed. He was certainly over thirty. She wondered about his nationality and suspected that very mixed blood ran in his veins. Somehow, in spite of his quite extraordinary good looks, she felt almost certain that he was not a pure type of any nation. In her mind she dubbed him on the spot “a marvellous mongrel.”
He obeyed Garstin’s suggestion, took off his coat, and laid it with his hat, gloves and stick on a chair close to the staircase. Then for the first time he spoke to Miss Van Tuyn, who was still standing.
“I always love a studio, mademoiselle,” he said, “and when Mr. Dick Garstin”—he pronounced the name with careful clearness—“was good enough to invite me to his I was very thankful. His pictures are famous.”
“You’ve been getting me up,” said Garstin bluntly. “Reading ‘Who’s Who’!”
Arabian raised his eyebrows.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t be absurd and put on false modesty, Dick,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “As if you weren’t known to everyone!”
It was the first time she had spoken in Arabian’s hearing since the episode in Shaftesbury Avenue, and, as she uttered her first words, she thought she detected a faint and fleeting look of surprise—it was like a mental start made visible—slip over his face, like a ray of pale light slipping over a surface. Immediately afterwards a keen expression came into his eyes, and he looked rather more self-possessed than before, rather harder even.
“Everyone, of course, knows your name, Mr. Dick Garstin, as mademoiselle says.”
“Right you are!” said Garstin gruffly. “Glad to hear it!”