“If Arabian does come to-day go away with him when he goes. Get to know him really. You could, I believe. But ever since he’s come here to sit he has shut up the box which contains the truth of what he is, locked it, and lost the key. His face is a mask, and I don’t paint masks.”
“Very well. I will.”
“Good!” said Garstin sonorously, and looking suddenly much less tired and morose.
“But why do you think I could get to know him?”
“Because he’s—but you know why better than I do.”
“I don’t.”
“Arabian’s in love with you, my girl. By Jove! There he is!”
The bell had sounded below.
With a swift movement Garstin got hold of a palette knife, sprang at the sketch of Arabian, and ripped up the canvas from top to bottom. Miss Van Tuyn uttered a cry.
“Dick!”