She knew he was looking straight at her though she did not look at him. At that moment a remembrance of Craven and Camber flashed through her mind. “Yes, I know,” she said, “But--” “I am fond of the river,” he said. “Yes--but in winter!” “Let us go. Or will you come back to--” “No, I will go. I like it too. London looks its best from the waterside.” And she walked on again with him. He said nothing more, and she did not speak till they had crossed the broad road and were on the path by the dark river, which flowed at full tide under a heavy blackish grey sky. Then Arabian spoke again, and the peculiar softness she had noticed that afternoon had gone out of his voice. “I am fortunate, am I not,” he said, “to be the possessor of that very fine picture by Dick Garstin? Many people would be glad to buy it, I suppose.” “Oh, yes!” “Do you consider it one of Dick Garstin’s best paintings? I know you are a good judge. I wish to hear what you really think.” “He has never painted anything more finely that I have seen.” “Ah! That is indeed lucky for me.” “Yes.” “I shall send and fetch it away.” “Oh, but--” She stopped speaking. She was startled by his tone and also by what he had said. She glanced at him, then looked away and across the dark river. Dead leaves brushed against her feet with a dry, brittle noise. “What is that you say, please?” “I only--I thought it was arranged that the picture was to be exhibited,” she said, falteringly. “Oh, no. I shall not permit Dick Garstin to exhibit that picture.” Now intense curiosity was born in her and seemed for the moment to submerge her uneasiness and fear. “But wasn’t it understood?” she said. “Please, what do you say was understood?” “Didn’t Mr. Garstin say he meant to exhibit the picture and afterwards give it to you?” “But I say that I shall not permit Dick Garstin to exhibit my picture.” “Why won’t you allow it?” she asked. In her curiosity she was at last regaining some of her usual self-possession. She scented a struggle between these two men, both of them of tough fibre, both of them, she believed, far from scrupulous, both of them likely to be enormously energetic and determined when roused. “Do you not know?” he asked. “No! How can I know such a thing? How can I know what is in your mind unless you tell me?” “Oh, but I will tell you then! I will not let Dick Garstin exhibit that picture because it is a lie about me.” “A lie? How can that be?” “A man can speak a lie. Is it not so?” “Of course.” “Cannot a man write a lie?” “Yes.” “And a man can paint a lie. Dick Garstin has painted a lie about me.” “But then--if it is so--” “Certainly it is so.” There was now a hard sound in his voice, and, when she looked at him, she saw that his face had changed. The quiet self-control which had amazed her in the studio was evidently leaving him. Or he no longer cared to exercise it. “But, then, do you wish to possess the picture? Do you wish to possess a lie?”