Miss Van Tuyn crossed the room and joined him in front of the picture, which showed the judge seated in his wig and robes. “And that is not all,” added Arabian. “This man’s business is to judge others, naughty people who do God knows what, and, it seems, have to be punished sometimes. Is it not?” “Yes, to be sure.” “But Mr. Dick Garstin when painting him is saying to himself all the time, ‘And he is naughty, too! And who is going to put on wig and red clothes and tell him he, too, deserves a few months of prison?’ Now is not that true, mademoiselle? Is not that man bad underneath the judge’s skin? And has not Mr. Dick Garstin found this out, and does not he use all his cleverness to show it?” Miss Van Tuyn looked at Arabian with a stronger interest than any she had shown yet. It was quite true. Garstin had a peculiar faculty for getting at the lower parts of a character and for bringing it to the surface in his portraits. Perhaps in the exercise of this faculty he showed his ingrained cynicism, sometimes even his malice. Arabian had, it seemed, immediately discovered the painter’s predominant quality as a psychologist of the brush. “You are quite right,” she said. “One feels that someone ought to judge that judge.” “That is more than a portrait of one man,” said Arabian. “It is a portrait of the world’s hypocrisy.” In saying this his usually soft voice suddenly took on an almost biting tone. “The question is,” he added, “whether one wishes to be painted as bad when perhaps one is not so bad. Many people, I think, might fear to be painted by this very famous Mr. Dick Garstin.” “Would you be afraid to be painted by him?” she said. He cast a sharp glance at her with eyes which looked suddenly vigilant. “I did not say that.” “He’ll be furious if you refuse.” “I see he is accustomed generally to have what he wishes.” “Yes. And he would make a magnificent thing of you. I am certain of that.” She saw vanity looking out of his eyes, and her vanity felt suddenly almost strangely at home with it. “It is a compliment, I know, that he should wish to paint me,” said Arabian. “But why does he?” The question sounded to Miss Van Tuyn almost suspicious. “He admires your appearance,” she answered. “He thinks you a very striking type.” “Ah! A type! But what of?” “He didn’t tell me,” she answered. Arabian was silent for a moment; then he said: “Does Mr. Dick Garstin get high prices for his portraits? Are they worth a great deal?” “Yes,” she said, with a sudden light touch of disdain, which she could not forego. “The smallest sketch of a head painted by him will fetch a lot of money.” “Ah--indeed!” “Let him paint you! There he is--coming back.” As Garstin reappeared Arabian turned to him with a smile that looked cordial and yet that seemed somehow wanting in real geniality. “I have seen them all.” “Have you? Well, let’s have a drink.”