It was the first time she had spoken in Arabian’s hearing since the episode in Shaftesbury Avenue, and, as she uttered her first words, she thought she detected a faint and fleeting look of surprise--it was like a mental start made visible--slip over his face, like a ray of pale light slipping over a surface. Immediately afterwards a keen expression came into his eyes, and he looked rather more self-possessed than before, rather harder even. “Everyone, of course, knows your name, Mr. Dick Garstin, as mademoiselle says.” “Right you are!” said Garstin gruffly. “Glad to hear it!” He now directed the two pin-points of light to the new visitor, stared at him with almost cruel severity, and yet with a curiously inward look, frowning and lifting his long pursed lips, till the upper lip was pressed against the bottom of his beaked nose. “Are you going to allow me to paint you?” he said. “That’s what I’m after. I should like to do a head and bust of you. I could make something of it--something--yes!” He still stared with concentrated attention, and suddenly a faint whistle came from his lips. Without removing his eyes from Arabian he whistled several times a little tune of five notes, like the song of a thrush. Arabian meanwhile returned his gaze rather doubtfully, slightly smiling. “Ever been painted?” said Garstin at last. “No, never. Once I have sat to a sculptor for the figure. But that was when I was very young. I was something of an athlete as a boy.” “I should say so,” said Garstin. “Well, what do you think, eh?” Miss Van Tuyn had sat down on the sofa again, and was lighting another cigarette. She looked at the two men with interest. She now knew that what Garstin had done he had really done for himself, not for her. As he had said, he did not paint for the pleasure of others, but only for reasons of his own. Apparently he would never gratify her vanity. But he gratified something else in her, her genuine love of talent and the ruthlessness of talent. There was really something of the great man in Garstin, and she appreciated it. She admired him more than she liked him. Even in her frequent irritation against him she knew what he genuinely was. At this moment something in her was sharply disappointed. But something else in her was curiously satisfied. In reply to Garstin’s question Arabian asked another question. “You wish to make a portrait of me?” “I do--in oils.” “Will it take long?” “I couldn’t say. I might be a week over it, or less, or more. I shall want you every day.” “And when it is done?” said Arabian. “What happens to it?” “If it’s up to the mark--my mark--I shall want to exhibit it.”