“Yeh, look at 'em and have a good laugh,” invited Hunt. Larry carried the portrait of the Duchess to beneath the swinging electric bulb and examined it closely. Maggie, at his shoulder, waited for his mirth; and Hunt regarded him with a sidelong gaze. But Larry did not laugh. He silently returned the picture, and then examined the portrait of Old Jimmie--then of Maggie--then of the Italian madonna, throned on her curbstone. He replaced this last and crossed swiftly to Hunt. Maggie watched this move in amazement. Larry faced the big painter. His figure was tense, his features hard with suspicion. That moment one could understand why he was sometimes called “Terrible Larry”; just then he looked a devastating explosion that was still unexploded. “What's your game down here, Hunt?” he demanded harshly. “My game?” repeated the big painter. “I don't get you.” “Yes, you do! You're down here posing as a boob who smears up canvases!” “What's wrong with that?” “Only this: those are not crazy daubs. They're real pictures!” “Eh!” exclaimed Hunt. Maggie stared in bewilderment at the two men. Hunt spoke again. “What the dickens do you know about pictures? Old Jimmie, who's said to be a shark, thinks all these things are just comics.” “Jimmie only thinks a picture's good after a thousand press-agents have said it's good,” Larry returned. “I studied at the Academy of Design for two years, till I learned I could never paint. But I know pictures.” “And you think mine are good?” “Not in the popular manner--they're too original. But they're great. And you're a great painter. And I want to know--” “Hurray!” shouted Hunt, and flung an enthusiastic arm about Larry, and began to pound his back. “Oh, boy! Oh, boy!” Larry wrenched himself free. “Cut that out. Then you admit you're a great painter?” “Of course I'm a great painter!” shouted Hunt. “Who should know it better than I do?” “Then what's a great painter doing down here? What's the game you're trying to put over, posing as--” “Listen, son,” Hunt grinned. “You've called me and I've got to show my cards. Only you mustn't ever tell--nor must Maggie; the Duchess doesn't talk, anyway. No need bothering you just now with a lot of details about myself. It's enough to say that people wouldn't pay me except when I did the usual pretty rot; no one believed in the other stuff I wanted to do. I wanted to get away from that bunch; I wanted to do real studies of human people, with their real nature showing through. So I beat it. Understand so far?” “But why pose as a dub down here?”