“I am not lying!” she said with hot anger.
Suddenly she felt that tears had come into her eyes.
“How hateful you are!” she exclaimed.
She felt frightened under the eyes of the portrait. Garstin’s revelation had struck upon her like a blow. She felt dazed by it. Yet she longed to hit back. She wanted to defend Arabian, perhaps because she felt that she needed defence.
Garstin came abruptly round the sofa and sat down by her side.
“What’s up?” he said in a kinder voice.
“Why do you paint like that? It’s abominable!”
“Tell me the honest truth—God’s own truth, as they call it, I don’t know why—is that picture fine, is it my best work, or isn’t it?”
“I’ve told you already. It’s a technical masterpiece and a moral outrage. You have taken a man for a model and painted a beast.”
“Beryl,” he said almost solemnly, “believe it or not, as you can, that is Arabian!”