When Arabian had come into the studio that day, and had seen the sketch of him ripped up by the palette knife, he had looked almost fierce for a moment. He had turned towards Garstin with a sort of hauteur like one demanding, and having the right to demand, an explanation.
“What’s the row?” Garstin had said, with almost insolent defiance. “I destroyed it because it’s damned bad. I hadn’t got you.”
And then he had taken the canvas from the easel and had thrown it contemptuously into a corner of the studio.
Arabian had said nothing, but there had been a cloud on his face, and Miss Van Tuyn had known that he was angry, as a man is angry when he sees a bit of his property destroyed by another. And she had remembered her words to Arabian, that the least sketch by Garstin was worth a great deal of money.
Surely Arabian was a greedy man.
No work had been done in the studio that morning. They had sat and talked for a while. Garstin had said most. He had been more agreeable than usual, and had explained to Arabian, rather as one explains to a child, that a worker in an art is sometimes baffled for a time, a writer by his theme, a musician by his floating and perhaps half-nebulous conception, a painter by his subject. Then he must wait, cursing perhaps, damning his own impotence, dreading its continuance. But there is nothing else to be done. Pazienza! And he had enlarged upon patience. And Arabian had listened politely, had looked as if he were trying to understand.
“I’ll try again!” Garstin had said. “You must give me time, my boy. You’re not in a hurry to leave London, are you?”
And then Miss Van Tuyn had seen Arabian’s eyes turn to her as he had said, but rather doubtfully:
“I don’t know whether I am.”
Garstin’s eyes had said to her with sharp imperativeness: