“You have the throat of one of those bronzes,” he said bluntly, “and should never wear that cursed abomination, a starched linen collar.”
“What is one to do in London?” murmured Arabian, suddenly stretching his brown throat and lifting his strong chin.
“Show it something worth looking at,” said Garstin.
And he returned to the subject of women, and spoke on it so freely and fully that Miss Van Tuyn presently pulled him up. Rather to her surprise he showed unusual meekness under her interruption.
“All right, my girl! I’ve done! I’ve done! But I always forget you’re not a young man.”
“Ma foi!” said Arabian, almost under his breath.
Garstin looked across at him
“She’s a Tartar. She’d keep the devil himself in order.”
“He deserves restraint far less than you do,” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“She won’t leave me alone,” continued Garstin, flinging one leg over the arm of his easy chair. “She even attacks me about my painting, says I only paint the rats of the sewers.”