“Certainly it is so.”
There was now a hard sound in his voice, and, when she looked at him, she saw that his face had changed. The quiet self-control which had amazed her in the studio was evidently leaving him. Or he no longer cared to exercise it.
“But, then, do you wish to possess the picture? Do you wish to possess a lie?”
“Is it not right that I possess it rather than someone else?”
“Yes, perhaps it is.”
“Certainly it is. I shall take that picture away.”
“But Dick Garstin intends to exhibit it. I know that. I know he will not let you have it till it has been shown.”
“What is the law in England that one man should paint a wicked portrait of another man and that this other should be helpless to prevent it from being shown to all the world? Is that just?”
“No, I don’t think it is.”
He stopped abruptly and stood by the river wall. It was a cold and dreary afternoon, menacing and dark. Few people were out in that place. She stood still beside him.