David was stark with the treachery of Tom. He could manage Tom. It was bitter hard, but he could manage Tom. These others—these living missiles of mud Tom used to fling at him, now he was weak and angry:——
Tom goaded on. Never had he been so lonely, never had he needed David more. Yearning to fling himself on David’s side, to his feet, his words grew sharper, falser.
“He is silent,” mocked the emboldened Durthal. “Perhaps he isn’t pure, at all. This is important, you know. How shall we ever find out?”
“But even if he is, do you think, Darby, that would make him worth painting?” Tom leaned back on his heels and poised David. “Yes,” he said slowly, “he is worth painting.”
“Tell us, Markand—are you what you profess to be,” Durthal mock-pleaded.
David was up. He was white. He was suddenly strong and gentle.
He walked to the door and opened it.
“Get out,” he said.
They sat there, rigid. They looked to Tom. The gap of the open door was a drawing burn upon them. Tom said no word. He gave a little laugh and was silent also.
Lunn fumbled for his hat.