Miss Van Tuyn was again struck, as she had been struck, when she first met Arabian in the studio, by the man’s enormous self-possession. She felt sure that he must be feeling furiously angry, yet he did not show a trace of anger, of surprise, of any emotion. Only the marked softness of his voice was unusual. He seemed to be examining the picture with quiet interest and care.
“Well? Well?” said Garstin at last, with a sort of acute impatience which betrayed to her that he was really uneasy. “Let’s hear what you think, though we know you don’t set up for being a judge of painting.”
“I think it is very like,” said Arabian.
“Oh, Lord—like!” exclaimed Garstin, on an angry gust of breath. “I’m not a damned photographer!”
“Should not a portrait be like?” said Arabian, still in the very soft voice. “Am I wrong, then?”
“Of course not!” said Miss Van Tuyn, frowning at Garstin.
At that moment absolutely, and without any reserve, she hated him.
“Then you’re satisfied?” jerked out Garstin.
“Indeed—yes, Dick Garstin. This is a valuable possession for me.”
“Possession?” said Garstin, as if startled. “Oh, yes, to be sure! You’re to have it—presently!”