“Now we are getting away from Arabian,” she said, with cool self-possession.
“Owing to your infernal egoism, my girl!”
“Override it, then, with your equally infernal altruism, my boy!”
Garstin smiled, and for a moment looked a little less fatigued, but in a moment his almost morose preoccupation returned. He glanced again towards the sketch.
“I should like to slit it up with a palette knife!” he said. “The devil of it is that I felt I could do a really great thing with that fellow. I struck out a fine phrase that night. D’you remember?”
“Yes. You called him a king in the underworld.”
Abruptly he got up and began to walk about the studio, stopping now here, now there, before his portraits. He paused for quite a long time before the portraits of Cora and the judge. Then he came back to the sketch of Arabian.
“You must help me!” he said at last.
“I!” she exclaimed, with almost sharp surprise. “How can I help you?”
He turned, and she saw the pin-points of light.