“May I ask for a cigar, Dick Garstin?” he said.
“Pardon!” said Garstin gruffly.
Miss Van Tuyn noticed that he seemed very ill at ease. His rough self-possession had deserted him. He looked almost shy and awkward. Before going to the cabinet he went to the easel and noisily wheeled it away. Then he fetched the cigar and poured out a drink for Arabian.
“Light up, old chap! Have a drink!”
There was surely reluctant admiration in his voice.
Arabian accepted the drink, lit the cigar, sat down, and began to talk about his flat. At that moment he dominated them both. Miss Van Tuyn felt it. He talked much more than she had ever before heard him talk in the studio, and expressed himself better, with more fluency than usual. Garstin said very little. There was a fixed flush on his cheek-bones and an angry light in his eyes. He sat watching Arabian with a hostile, and yet half-admiring, scrutiny, smoking rapidly, nervously, and twisting his large hands about.
Presently Miss Van Tuyn got up to go.
“Going already?” said Garstin.
“Yes, I must.”
“Oh, well—”