“Frank Seaford—oh, did you? How is he? I haven’t seen him for some time—”
“So I gathered,” Peter remarked dryly. “He seems to be getting on very well since Ringsmith took him up.”
“Ah! Ringsmith’s right. He’s a beautiful—artist. Did you—see—”
Peter interrupted. “I think I’ve seen all Seaford’s work. Anyhow he owes his recognition entirely to you. I introduced him to Ringsmith entirely on your recommendation two years ago. He’s sold a lot of pictures during that time. When did you see him last, Saunderson?”
David stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“Let me see—some time before the War—it must have been—more than a year ago.”
“Not very grateful,” Peter could not help rapping out.
David stopped smoking, and seemed to rouse himself.
“You’re quite wrong, Knott. He sent me—that exquisite study—on the wall yonder.” He pointed as he spoke to a small drawing in water colours.
Peter got up, looked at it a moment, and shrugged his shoulders.