“Would you,” pursued Arabian, apparently in desperate earnest, “would you allow a picture of you like this to be shown to all your friends?”
“I think,” returned Sir Seymour, still with an absolute and simple gravity, “that I should object to that—strongly.”
“You hear!” said Arabian to Garstin. “It is your friend who says this.”
“I can’t help that,” said Garstin, totally unperturbed. “I’m going to exhibit that picture.”
“No! No!” said Arabian.
And as he spoke he suddenly bared his teeth.
Garstin, without making any rejoinder to this almost brutally forcible exclamation, which was full of violent will, thrust a hand into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a big gold watch.
“I say, I’m awfully sorry,” he said, with a swift glance at Sir Seymour, which the latter did not miss, “but I must turn you both out. I’m dining at the Arts Club to-night. Jinks—you know the Slade Jinks—is coming to pick me up. You’ll forgive me, Sir Seymour?”
His voice was unusually gentle as he said the last words.
“Of course. I’ve stayed an unconscionable time. Are you going my way, Mr. Arabian?”