‘Do you mind,’ I said, ‘if for a minute I sit still and look round?’
He understood again.
‘I haven’t brought much,’ he said, ‘I left pretty near everything in Paris.’
‘You have brought a world.’ Then after a moment, ‘Did you do that?’ I asked, nodding towards a canvas tacked against the wall. It was the head of a half-veiled Arab woman turned away.
The picture was in the turning away, and the shadow the head-covering made over the cheek and lips.
‘Lord, no! That’s Dagnan Bouveret. I used to take my things to him, and one day he gave me that. You have an eye,’ he added, but without patronage. ‘It’s the best thing I’ve got.’
I felt the warmth of an old thrill.
‘Once upon a time,’ I said, ‘I was allowed to have an eye.’ The wine, untasted all those years, went to my head. ‘That’s a vigorous bit above,’ I continued.
‘Oh, well! It isn’t really up to much, you know. It’s Rosario’s. He photographs mostly, but he has a notion of colour.’
‘Really?’ said I, thinking with regard to my eye that the sun of that atrocious country had put it out. ‘I expect I’ve lost it,’ I said aloud.