And she walked on again with him. He said nothing more, and she did not speak till they had crossed the broad road and were on the path by the dark river, which flowed at full tide under a heavy blackish grey sky. Then Arabian spoke again, and the peculiar softness she had noticed that afternoon had gone out of his voice.
“I am fortunate, am I not,” he said, “to be the possessor of that very fine picture by Dick Garstin? Many people would be glad to buy it, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes!”
“Do you consider it one of Dick Garstin’s best paintings? I know you are a good judge. I wish to hear what you really think.”
“He has never painted anything more finely that I have seen.”
“Ah! That is indeed lucky for me.”
“Yes.”
“I shall send and fetch it away.”
“Oh, but—”
She stopped speaking. She was startled by his tone and also by what he had said. She glanced at him, then looked away and across the dark river. Dead leaves brushed against her feet with a dry, brittle noise.