“Is it not right that I possess it rather than someone else?” “Yes, perhaps it is.” “Certainly it is. I shall take that picture away.” “But Dick Garstin intends to exhibit it. I know that. I know he will not let you have it till it has been shown.” “What is the law in England that one man should paint a wicked portrait of another man and that this other should be helpless to prevent it from being shown to all the world? Is that just?” “No, I don’t think it is.” He stopped abruptly and stood by the river wall. It was a cold and dreary afternoon, menacing and dark. Few people were out in that place. She stood still beside him. “Miss Van Tuyn,” he said, looking hard at her with an expression of--apparently--angry sincerity in his eyes. “This happens. I sit quietly in the Cafe Royal, a public place. A strange man comes up. Never have I seen him before. He says himself to be a painter. He asks to paint me--he begs! I go to his studio, as you know. I hesitate when I have seen his pictures--all of horrible persons, bad women and a beastly old man. At last he persuades me to be painted, promising to give me the picture when finished. He paints and paints, destroys and destroys. I am patient. I give up nearly all my time to him. I sit there day after day for hours. At last he has painted me. And when I look I find he has made of me a beast, a monster, worse than all the other horrible persons. And when I come in he is showing this monster to you, a lady, my friend, one I respect and admire above all, and who, perhaps, has thought of me with kindness, who has been to me in trouble, to my flat, who has told me her sorrow and put trust in me as in none other. ‘Here he is!’ says Dick Garstin. ‘This beast, this monster--it is he! Look at him. I introduce you to Nicolas Arabian!’ Am I, in return for such things, to say, ‘All right! Now take this beast, this monster, and show him to all the world and say, “There is Nicolas Arabian!”’ Do you say I should do this?” “But I have nothing to do with it.” “Have you not?” Her eyes gave way before his and looked down. “Anyhow,” he said, “I will not do it. I have a will as well as he.” “Yes,” she thought. “You have a will, a tremendous will.” “To you,” he said, “I show what I would not show to him, that I have feelings and that I am very much hurt to-day.” “I am sorry. I told Dick Garstin--” “Yes? What?” “Before you came I told him he ought not to exhibit the picture.” “Ah! Thank you! Thank you!” He smiled, and the lustrously soft look came into his eyes. “A woman--she always knows what a man is!” he said, in a low voice. “It is cold standing here!” she said. She shivered as she spoke and looked at the water. “We will go to my flat,” he said, with a sudden air of authority. “There is a big fire there.” “Oh, no, I can’t!” “Why not? You have been there.” “Yes, but I ought not to have gone. I am in mourning.” “You go to Dick Garstin. What is the difference?” “People are so foolish. They talk.”