“No, no, of course not.”
“It’s the first time I’ve heard you speak as if you were put out about something. Nothing’s wrong?”
“No, no!” Maddison answered, laying his hand heartily on Mortimer’s shoulder, “not a bit. But—what do you think of it?”
“And this is the first time you’ve ever asked my humble opinion. I like it.”
“That sounds rather dubious. Speak out—you mean you don’t like it.”
Mortimer looked again at the picture hesitatingly.
“You don’t like it,” said Maddison again.
“Yes, I like it. But there’s something wanting; it doesn’t seem to me quite you. It’s the only picture of yours I’ve ever seen that somebody else might have painted.”
Maddison turned sharply away and strode over to the window.
“Oh, rot, old chap, you mustn’t mind what I say,” protested Mortimer. “You hinted just now that what I don’t know about pictures would set up half a dozen critics, and here you are getting the hump over my nonsense.”