It was still the voice of the Baron—full, energetic, intensely un-English.
“Have you heard the name before, Lady Sellingworth?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Really! What country does it belong to? Surely not to our England?”
“No.”
Craven was not speaking at this moment, and she felt that he was listening to them. She remembered how Beryl had hurt her and, speaking with deliberate clearness, she added:
“Garstin, the painter, has had this man, Nicolas Arabian, as a sitter for a long time, certainly for a good many weeks. And Beryl is just now intensely interested in portrait painting.”
“What—he’s a model! But with a flat in Rose Tree Gardens!”
“He is evidently not an ordinary model. I believe Mr. Garstin picked him up somewhere, saw him by chance, probably at the Cafe Royal or some place of that kind, and asked him to sit.”
“Do you know him?” asked the Baron, with sharp curiosity.