"I—painted," said Querida, smiling.
"Sure. I know that. I suppose it was the hellish row made over your canvases last winter that did the trick."
Querida's eyes were partly closed as though in retrospection. "Also," he said, softly, "I painted a very fashionable woman—for nothing—and to her entire satisfaction."
"That's the real thing, isn't it?"
"I'm afraid so…. Make two or three unlovely and unlovable old ladies lovely and lovable—on canvas—for nothing. Then society will let you slap its powdered and painted face—yes—permit you—other liberties—if only you will paint it and sign your canvases and ask them a wicked price for what you give them and—for what they yield to you."
Allaire's ruddy face grew ruddier; he grinned and passed a muscular hand over his thick, handsome, fox-tinted hair.
"I wish I could get next," he said with a hard glance at Querida. "I'd sting 'em."
"I would be very glad to introduce you to anybody I know," observed the other.
"Do you mean that?"
"Why not. A man who has waited as I have for opportunity understands what others feel who are still waiting."