This was also the portrait of a woman, but of a woman well on in life, an elderly and battered siren of the streets, wrecked by men and by drink. Only the head and bust were shown, a withered head crowning a bust which had sunken in. There was an old pink hat set awry on the head. From beneath it escaped coarse wisps of almost orange-coloured hair. The dull, small eyes were deep-set under brows which looked feverish. A livid spot of red glowed almost like a torch-end on each high cheek-bone. The mouth had fallen open.
Arabian examined this tragedy, which was one of Garstin’s finest bits of work in Miss Van Tuyn’s estimation, with careful and close attention, but without showing the faintest symptom of either pity or disgust.
“In my opinion that is well painted,” was his comment. “They do get to be like that. And then they starve. And that is because they have no brains.”
“Garstin swears that woman must once have been very beautiful,” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“Oh—quite possible,” said Arabian.
“Well, I can’t conceive it.”
He turned and gave her a long, steady look, full of softness and ardour.
“It would be very sad if you could,” he said. “Excuse me, but are you American?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Americans never get like that. They are too practical.”