“I am sorry, but I cannot help it, Dick Garstin,” Arabian had said.
And after a pause he had added:
“I hope I have not shown impatience all this long time?”
Garstin had cursed, but he had not persisted. Evidently he had realized that persistence would be useless. On the Monday he had received Arabian with frigid hauteur, but soon he had become intent on his work and had apparently forgotten his grievance.
Half-past four struck—then the quarter to five. Garstin had been painting for more than two hours. Now he put down his brush and frowned, still looking at Arabian, who was sitting in an easy, almost casual position, with his magnificent brown throat and shoulders exposed.
“Finished!” he said in his loud bass voice.
Miss Van Tuyn, who was curled up on a divan in a corner of the studio, moved and put down a book which she had been pretending to read. Garstin had forbidden her to come near to him that day while he was painting.
“Finished!” she exclaimed. “Do you mean—”
“No, damn it, I don’t!” said Garstin, with exasperation. “I don’t! Do you take me for a magician, or what? I have finished for to-day! Now then!”
He began to move the easel. Miss Van Tuyn got up, and Arabian, without saying a word, stretched himself, looked at her steadily for a moment, then pulled up his silk vest and carefully buttoned it with his strong-looking fingers. Then he too got up, and went away to the dressing-room to put on his shirt, waistcoat, collar and tie.