Garstin was gazing at his ruined masterpiece with a curious twisted smile.
“What can one say?” said Sir Seymour. “When Horridge was here I thought: ‘When he’s gone I’ll tell Mr. Garstin!’ And now he is gone, and—and—”
He went up to Garstin and held out his hand.
“I know I don’t understand what you feel about this. No one could but a fellow-painter as big as you are. But I wish I could make you understand what I feel about something else.”
“And what’s that?” said Garstin, as he took Sir Seymour’s hand, almost doubtfully.
“About the way you’ve taken it, and your letting the blackguard off.”
“Oh, as to that, I bet you he’ll be in Paris by five to-day.”
“Just what I think. But still—”
He pressed Garstin’s hand, and Garstin returned the pressure.
“Beryl wanted me to paint him, but I painted him to please myself. I’m a selfish brute, like most painters, I suppose.”