“Quite so. I am to have it. It is indeed very fine. Do not you think so, Miss Van Tuyn?”
For the first time since he had seen the portrait he looked away from it, and his eyes rested on her. She felt that she trembled under those eyes, and hoped that he did not see it.
“You do not say! Surely this is a very fine picture?”
He seemed to be asking her to tell him whether or not the portrait ought to be admired. There was just then an odd simplicity, or pretence of simplicity, in his manner which was almost boyish. And his eyes seemed to be appealing to her.
“It is a magnificent piece of painting,” she forced herself to say.
But she said it coldly, reluctantly.
“Then I am not wrong.”
He looked pleased.
“My eye is not very educated. I fear to express my opinion before people such as you”—he looked towards Garstin, and added—“and you, Dick Garstin.”
And then he turned away from the picture with the manner of a man who had done with it. She was amazed at his coolness, his perfect ease of manner.