For a moment she hated the straight-backed, soldierly old man who was standing before her. For he saw her in the dust, where no one ought ever to see her.

"He's in love with me!" she said.

It was as if the words were forced out of her against her will. Directly she had said them she bitterly regretted them. They were the cry of her undying vanity that must try to put itself right, to stand up for itself at whatever cost. Directly she had spoken them she saw a slight twitch pull the left side of his face upward. It had upon her a moral effect.

She felt it as his irresistible comment--a comment of the body, but coming from elsewhere--on her and her nature, and her recent a.s.sociation with Arabian. And suddenly her hatred died, and she longed to do something to establish herself in his regard, to gain his respect.

Already he was holding out his hand to her. She took his hand and held it tightly.

"Don't think too badly of me," she said imploringly. "I want you not to. Because I think you see clearly--you see people as they are. You saw Adela as she is. And perhaps no one else did. But you don't know how fine she is--even you don't. I had treated her badly. I had been unkind to her, very unkind. I had--I had been spiteful to her, and tried to harm her happiness. And yet she told me! I am sure no other woman would ever have done what she has done."

"She had to do it," he said gravely.

But his hand now slightly pressed hers.

"_Had_ to? But why?"

"Because she happens to be a thoroughbred."

"Ah!" she breathed.

She was looking into his dark old eyes, and now they were kind, almost soft.

"We must take care," he added, "that what she had done shall not be done in vain. We owe her that. Good-bye."

"And you don't think too badly about me?"

"Once I called you the daffodil girl to her."

"Did you?"

"Youth is pretty cruel sometimes. When you've forgotten all this, don't forget to be kind."

"To her! But how could I?"

"But I don't mean only to her!"

And then he left her.

When he had gone she sat still for a long while, thinking. And the strange thing was that for once she was not thinking about herself.

CHAPTER XII

Rather late in the afternoon of the same day, towards half-past five, d.i.c.k Garstin, who was alone in his studio upstairs smoking a pipe and reading Delacroix's "Mon Journal," heard his door bell ring. He was stretched out on a divan, and he lay for a moment without moving, puffing at his pipe with the book in his hand. Then he heard the bell again, and got up. Arabian's portrait stood on its easel in the middle of the room. Garstin glanced at it as he went toward the stairs. Since the day when he had shown it for the first time to Beryl Van Tuyn and Arabian he had not seen either of them. Nor had he had a word from them.

This had not troubled him. Already he was at work on another sitter, a dancer in the Russian ballet, talented, decadent, impertinent, and, so Garstin believed, marked out for early death in a madhouse--altogether quite an interesting study. But now, looking at Arabian's portrait, Garstin thought:

"Probably the man himself. I knew he would come back, and we should have a battle. Now for it!"

And he smiled as he went striding downstairs.

But when he opened the door he found standing outside in the foggy darkness a tall, soldierly old man, with an upright figure, white hair, and moustache, a lined red face and dark eyes which looked straight into his.

"Who are you, sir?" said Garstin. "And what do you want?"

"Are you Mr. d.i.c.k Garstin?" said the old man.

"Or rather, elderly," Garstin now said to himself, glancing sharply over his visitor's strong, lean frame and broad shoulders.

"Yes, I am."

The stranger opened a leather case and took out a card.

"Perhaps you will kindly read that."

Garstin took the card.

"Beryl!" he said. "What's up?"

And he read: "To introduce Sir Seymour Portman, _please see him_. B. V.

T."

"Are you Sir Seymour Portman?"

"Yes."

"Come in."

Sir Seymour stepped in.

"Take off your coat?"

"If you'll allow me. I won't keep you long."

"The longer the better!" said Garstin with offhand heartiness. He had taken a liking to his visitor at first sight.

"A d.a.m.ned fine old chap!" had been his instant mental comment on seeing Sir Seymour. "A fellow to swear by!"

"Come upstairs. I'll show you the way," he added.

He tramped up and Sir Seymour followed him.

"I do most of my painting here," said Garstin. "Sit down. Have a cigar."

"Thank you very much, but I won't smoke," said Sir Seymour, looking round casually at the portraits in the room before sitting down and crossing his right leg over his left leg. "And I won't take up your time for more than a few minutes."

At this moment he noticed at some distance the portrait of Arabian on its easel, and he put up his eyegla.s.ses. Then he moved.

"Will you allow me to look at that portrait over there?" he asked.