“Thank you very much, but I won’t smoke,” said Sir Seymour, looking round casually at the portraits in the room before sitting down and crossing his right leg over his left leg. “And I won’t take up your time for more than a few minutes.”
At this moment he noticed at some distance the portrait of Arabian on its easel, and he put up his eyeglasses. Then he moved.
“Will you allow me to look at that portrait over there?” he asked.
“Rather! It’s the last thing I’ve done, and not so bad either!”
Sir Seymour got up and went to stand in front of the portrait. He was puzzled, and his face showed that; he frowned and pursed his lips, bending forward.
“This is a portrait of a man called Arabian, isn’t it?” he said at length, turning round to Garstin.
“Yes. D’you know the fellow?”
“I haven’t that—privilege,” replied Sir Seymour with an extraordinarily dry intonation. “But I must have seen him somewhere.”
“About town. He’s been here some time.”
“But he’s altered!” said Sir Seymour, still looking hard at the portrait.