CHAPTER II
Miss Van Tuyn believed that things were coming her way after all. YoungCraven was suddenly released, and another very strong interest wasdawning in her life. Craven had not been wrong in thinking that shewas secretly excited when he met her in the hall at Claridge's. Shehad fulfilled her promise to Dick Garstin, driven to fulfilment by histaunt. No one should say with truth that she was afraid of anyone, manor woman. She would prove to Garstin that she was not afraid of theman he was trying to paint. So, on the day of their conversation in thestudio, she had left Glebe Place with Arabian. For the first time shehad been alone with him for more than a few minutes.
She had gone both eagerly and reluctantly; reluctantly because therewas really something in Arabian which woke in her a sort of frailand quivering anxiety such as she had never felt before in any man'scompany; eagerly because Garstin had put into words what had till thenbeen only a suspicion in her mind. He had told her that Arabian was inlove with her. Was that true? Even now she was not sure. That was partof the reason why she was not quite at ease with Arabian. She was notsure of anything about him except that he was marvellously handsome. ButGarstin was piercingly sharp. What he asserted about anyone was usuallythe fact. He could hardly be mistaken. Yet how could a woman be in doubtabout such a thing? And she was still, in spite of her vanity, in doubt.
When Arabian had come into the studio that day, and had seen the sketchof him ripped up by the palette knife, he had looked almost fierce fora moment. He had turned towards Garstin with a sort of hauteur like onedemanding, and having the right to demand, an explanation.
"What's the row?" Garstin had said, with almost insolent defiance. "Idestroyed it because it's damned bad. I hadn't got you."
And then he had taken the canvas from the easel and had thrown itcontemptuously into a corner of the studio.
Arabian had said nothing, but there had been a cloud on his face, andMiss Van Tuyn had known that he was angry, as a man is angry when hesees a bit of his property destroyed by another. And she had rememberedher words to Arabian, that the least sketch by Garstin was worth a greatdeal of money.
Surely Arabian was a greedy man.
No work had been done in the studio that morning. They had sat andtalked for a while. Garstin had said most. He had been more agreeablethan usual, and had explained to Arabian, rather as one explains to achild, that a worker in an art is sometimes baffled for a time, a writerby his theme, a musician by his floating and perhaps half-nebulousconception, a painter by his subject. Then he must wait, cursingperhaps, damning his own impotence, dreading its continuance. Butthere is nothing else to be done. _Pazienza!_ And he had enlarged uponpatience. And Arabian had listened politely, had looked as if he weretrying to understand.
"I'll try again!" Garstin had said. "You must give me time, my boy.You're not in a hurry to leave London, are you?"
And then Miss Van Tuyn had seen Arabian's eyes turn to her as he hadsaid, but rather doubtfully:
"I don't know whether I am."
Garstin's eyes had said to her with sharp imperativeness:
"Keep him! You're not to let him go!"
And she had kept her promise; she had gone away from the studio withArabian leaving Garstin smiling at the door. And at that moment she hadalmost hated Garstin.
Arabian had asked her to lunch with him. She had consented. He hadsuggested a cab, and the Savoy or the Carlton, or the Ritz if shepreferred it. But she had quickly replied that she knew of a smallrestaurant close to Sloane Square Station where the food was very good.Many painters and writers went there.
"But we are not painters and writers!" Arabian had said.
Nevertheless they had gone there, and had lunched in a quiet corner, andshe had left him about three o'clock.
On the day of Craven's call at Claridge's she had been with Arabianagain. Garstin had begun another picture, and had worked on throughthe lunch hour. Later they had had some food, a sort of picnic, in thestudio, and then she had walked away with Arabian. She had just left himwhen she met Craven in the hall of the hotel. Garstin had not allowedeither her or Arabian to look at what he had done. He had, Miss Van Tuynthought, seemed unusually nervous and diffident about his work. She didnot know how he had gone on, and was curious. But she was going to dinewith him that night. Perhaps he would tell her then, or perhaps he hadonly asked her to dinner that she might tell him about Arabian.
And in the midst of all this had come Craven with his changed manner andhis news about Lady Sellingworth.
Decidedly things were taking a turn for the better. To Miss Cronin'sincreasingly plaintive inquiries as to when they would return to ParisMiss Van Tuyn gave evasive replies. She was held in London, and hadalmost forgotten her friends in Paris.
She wondered why Adela had gone away so abruptly. Although she had halfhinted to Craven that she guessed the reason of this sudden departure,and had asserted that Adela would presently come back bringing sheaveswith her, she was not at all sure that her guess was right. Adela mightreturn mysteriously rejuvenated and ready to plunge once more intothe fray, braving opinion. It might be a case of _reculer pour mieuxsauter_. On the other hand, it might be a flight from danger. Miss VanTuyn was practically certain that Adela had fallen in love with AlickCraven. Was she being sensible and deliberately keeping out of his way,or was she being mad and trying to be made young at sixty in order toreturn armed for his captivation. Time would show. Meanwhile the groundwas unexpectedly clear. Craven was seeking her, and she, by Garstin'sorders and in the strict service of art, was pushing her way towards asort of intimacy with Arabian. But the difference between the two men!
Craven's visit to Claridge's immediately after the hours spentwith Arabian had emphasized for her the mystery of the latter. Herunderstanding of Craven underlined her ignorance about Arabian. Theconfidence she felt in Craven--a confidence quite independent of hisliking, or not liking her--marked for her the fact that she had noconfidence in Arabian. Craven was just an English gentleman. He mighthave done all sorts of things, but he was obviously a thoroughlystraight and decent fellow. A woman had only to glance at him to knowthe things he could never do. But when she looked at Arabian--well,then, the feeling was rather that Arabian might do anything. Cravenbelonged obviously to a class, although he had a strong and attractiveindividuality. English diplomacy presented many men of his type to theembassies in foreign countries. But to what class did Arabianbelong? Even Dick Garstin was quite comprehensible, in spite of hisextraordinary manners and almost violent originality. He was a Bohemian,with touches of genius, touches of vulgarity. There were others lessthan him, yet not wholly unlike him, men of the studios, of the paintingschools, smelling as it were of Chelsea and the _Quartier Latin_. ButArabian seemed to stand alone. When with him Miss Van Tuyn could nottell what type of man must inevitably be his natural comrade, what mustinevitably be his natural environment. She could see him at Monte Carlo,in the restaurants of Paris, in the _Galleria_ at Naples, in Cairo, inTunis, in a dozen places. But she could not see him at home. Was hethe eternal traveller, with plenty of money, a taste for luxury andthe wandering spirit? Or had he some purpose which drove him about theworld?
After Craven had left her that day at Claridge's she had a sudden wishto bring him and Craven together, to see how they got on together, tohear Craven's opinion of Arabian. Perhaps she could manage a meetingbetween the two men presently. Why not?
Arabian had not attempted to make love to her on either of the twooccasions when she had been with him alone. Only his eyes had seemed totell her that he admired her very much, that he wanted something of her.His manner had been noncommittal. He had seemed to be on his guard.
There was something in Arabian which suggested to Miss Van Tuynsuspicion. He was surely a man who, despite his "open" look, his boldfeatures, his enormously self-possessed manner, was suspicious ofothers. He had little confidence in others. She was almost certain ofthat. There was nothing cat-like in his appearance, yet at moments whenwith him she thought of a tomca
t, of its swiftness, suppleness, glidingenergies and watchful reserve. She suspected claws in his velvet, too.And yet surely he looked honest. She thought his look was honest, butthat his "atmosphere" was not. Often he had a straight look--she couldnot deny that to herself. He could gaze at you and let you return hisgaze. And yet she had not been able to read what he was in his eyes.
He was not very easy to get on with somehow, although there was a greatdeal of charm in his manner and although he was full of self-confidenceand evidently accustomed to women. But to what women was he accustomed?That was a question which Miss Van Tuyn asked herself. Craven wasobviously at home in the society of ordinary ladies and of women of theworld. You knew that somehow directly you were with him. But--Arabian?
Miss Van Tuyn could see him with smart _cocottes_. He would surely bevery much at ease with them. And many of them would be ready to adoresuch a man. For there was probably a strain of brutality somewhere underhis charm. And they would love that. She could even see him, or fanciedthat she could, with street women. For there was surely a touch of thestreet in him. He must have been bred up in cities. He did not belongto any fields or any woods that she knew or knew of. And--other women?Well, she was numbered among those other women. And how was he withher so far? Charming, easy, bold--yes; but also reserved, absolutelynon-committal. She was not at all sure whether she was going to be ofmuch use to Dick Garstin, except perhaps in her own person. Instead ofdelivering to him the man he wanted to come at perhaps she would end bydelivering a woman worth painting--herself.
For there was something in Arabian that was certainly dangerous toher, something in him that excited her, that lifted her into anunusual vitality. She did not quite know what it was. But she felt itdefinitely. When she was with him alone she seemed to be in an adventurethrough which a current of definite danger was flowing. No other man hadever brought a sensation like that into her life, although she had metmany types of men in Paris, had known well talented men of acknowledgedbad character, reckless of the _convenances_, men who snapped theirfingers at all the prejudices of the orthodox, and who made nodistinction between virtues and vices, following only their owninclinations.
Such a man was Dick Garstin. Yet Miss Van Tuyn had never with him hadthe sensation of being near to something dangerous which she had withArabian. Yet Arabian was scrupulously polite, was quiet, almost gentlein manner, and had a great deal of charm.
She remembered his following her in the street at night. What would hebe like with women of that sort? Would his gentleness be in evidencewith them, or would a totally different individual rise to the surfaceof him, a beast of prey perhaps with the jungle in its eyes?
Something in her shrank from Arabian as she had never yet shrunk froma human being. But something else was fascinated by him. She had theAmerican woman's outlook on men. She expected men to hold their own inthe world with other men, to be self-possessed, cool-headed, and bold intheir careers, but to be subservient in their relations with women. Tobe ruled by a husband would have seemed to her to be quite unnatural, torule him quite natural. She felt sure that no woman would be likely torule Arabian. She felt sure that his outlook on women was absolutelyunlike that of the American man. When she looked at him she thought ofthe rape of the Sabines. Surely he was a primitive under his maskof almost careful smartness and conventionality. There was somethingprimitive in her, too, and she became aware of that now. Hitherto shehad been inclined to believe that she was essentially complex, cerebral,free from any trace of sentimentality, quiveringly responsive to theappealing voices of the arts, healthily responsive to the joys ofathleticism almost in the way of a Greek youth in the early days of theworld, but that she was free from all taint of animalism. Men had toldher that, in spite of her charm and the fascination they felt in her,she lacked one thing--what they chose to call temperament. That waswhy, they said, she was able to live as she did, audaciously, eveneccentrically, without being kicked out of society as "impossible." Shewas saved from disaster by her interior coldness. She lived by the brainrather than by the senses. And she had taken this verdict to herself aspraise. She had felt refinement in her freedom from ordinary desire. Shehad been proud of worshipping beauty without any coarse longing. Toher her bronzes had typified something that she valued in herself. Herimmense vanity had not been blended with those passions which shake manywomen, which had devastated Lady Sellingworth. A coarseness in her mindmade her love to be physically desired by men, but no coarseness ofbody made her desire them. And she had supposed that she represented theultra modern type of woman, the woman who without being cold--she wouldnot acknowledge that she was cold--was free from the slavish instinctwhich makes all the ordinary women sisters in the vulgar bosom ofnature.
But since she had seen Arabian she felt less highly civilized; she knewthat in her, too, lurked the horrible primitive. And that troubled andat the same time fascinated her.
Was that why when she had seen Arabian for the first time she hadresolved to get to know him? She had called him a living bronze, butshe had thought of him from the first, perhaps, with ardour as flesh andblood.
And yet at moments he repelled her. She, who was so audacious, did notwant to show herself with him at the Ritz, to walk down Piccadilly withhim in daylight. As she had said to Dick Garstin, an atmosphere seemedto hang about Arabian--an unsafe atmosphere. She did not know where shewas in it. She lost her bearings, could not see her way, heard steps andvoices that sounded strange. And the end of it all was--"I don't know."When she thought of Arabian always that sentence was in her mind--"Idon't know."
She was strangely excited. And now Craven came to her. And he attractedher, too, but in such a different way!
Suddenly London was interesting! And "I don't know when we shall go backto Paris!" she said to Miss Cronin.
"Is it the Wallace Collection, Beryl?" murmured "Old Fanny," withplaintive suspicion over her cup of camomile tea.
"Yes, it's the Wallace Collection," said Miss Van Tuyn.
And she went away to dress for her dinner with Dick Garstin.
She met him at a tiny and very French restaurant in Conduit Street,where the cooking was absolutely first rate, where there was no soundof music, and where very few English people went. There were only someeight or ten tables in the cosy, warm little room, and when Miss VanTuyn entered it there were not a dozen people dining. Dick Garstin wasnot there. It was just like him to be late and to keep a woman waiting.But he had engaged a table in the corner of the room on the right, awayfrom the window. And Miss Van Tuyn was shown to it by a waiter, and satdown. On the way she had bought _The Westminster Gazette_. She openedit, lit a cigarette, and began to glance at the news. There happened tobe a letter from Paris in which the writer described a new play whichhad just been produced in an outlying theatre. Miss Van Tuyn read theaccount. She began reading in a casual mood, but almost immediately allher attention was grasped and held tight. She forgot where she was,let her cigarette go out, did not see Garstin when he came in fromthe street. When he came up and laid a hand on her arm she startedviolently.
"Who's--Dick!"
An angry look came into her face.
"Why did you do that?"
"What's the matter?"
He stared at her almost as if fascinated.
"By Jove . . . you look wonderful!"
"I forbid you to touch me like that! I hate being pawed, and you knowit."
He glanced at the pale green paper.
"The sea-green incorruptible!"
He stretched out his hand, but she quickly moved the paper out of hisreach.
"Let us dine. You've kept me waiting for ages."
Garstin sent a look to his waiter, and sat down opposite to Miss VanTuyn with his back to the room.
"I'll buy a _Westminster_ going back," he observed. "Bisque! Bring abottle of the Lanson, Raoul."
He addressed the waiter in French.
"_Oui, m'sieu_."
"Well iced!"
"_Certainement_, Monsieur Garstin."
/> "Better tempered now, Beryl?"
"You always make out that I have the temper of a fiend. I hate beingstartled. That's all."
"You're awfully nervy these days."
"I think you are the cruellest man I know. If it weren't for yourpainting no one would have anything to do with you."
"I shouldn't care."
"Yes, you would. You love being worshipped and run after."
"Good soup, isn't it?"
She made no answer to this. After a silence she said:
"Why were you so late?"
"To give you time to study the evening paper."
"Were you working?"
"No--cursing."
"Why?"
"This damned portrait's going to be no good either!"
"Then you'd better give it up."
He shot a piercing glance at her.
"It isn't my way to give things up once I've put my hand to them," heobserved drily. "And you seem to forget that you put me up to it."
"That was only a whim. You didn't take it seriously."
"I do now, though."
"But if you're baffled?"
"For the moment. I've nearly always found that the best work comeshardest. One has to sweat blood before one reaches the big thing. Imay begin on him half a dozen times, cut him to ribbons half a dozentimes--and then do a masterpiece."
"I don't think he'll wait long enough. Another stab of the palette knifeand you'll probably see the last of him."
"Ah--he didn't like it, did he?"
"He was furious."
"Did he say anything about it afterwards to you?"
"Not a word. But he was furious. You stabbed money!"
Garstin smiled appreciatively. Raoul was pouring out the champagne.Garstin lifted his glass and set it down half empty.
"Had you told him--"
He paused.
"He knows everything you do is worth money, a lot of money."
"He's got the hairy heel. I always knew that. We'll get to his secretyet, you and I between us."
"I am not sure that I can stay over here very much longer, Dick. Parisis my home, and I can't waste my money at Claridge's for ever."
"If you like I'll pay the bill."
She reddened.
"Do you really think that if I were to go he--Arabian--"
"He'd follow you by the next boat."
"I'm sure he wouldn't."
"You're not half so vain as I thought you were."
"When we are alone he never attempts to make love to me. We talkplatitudes. I know him no better than I did before."
"He's a wary bird. But the dawn must come and with it his crow."
"Well, Dick, I tell you frankly that I may go back to Paris any day."
"I knew you were nervy to-night. I wish I could find a woman who was amatch for a man in the nervous system. But there isn't one. That's whywe are so superior. We've got steel where you've all got fiddle strings.Raoul!"
He drank again and ate heartily. He was a voracious eater at times. Butthere were days when he ate nothing and worked incessantly.
They had begun dinner late, and the little restaurant was getting empty.Three sets of diners had gone out since they had sat down. The waiterswere clearing some of the tables. A family party, obviously French,lingered at a round table in the middle of the room over their coffee. Apale man sat alone in a corner eating pressed duck with greedy avidity.And Raoul, leaving Miss Van Tuyn and Garstin, placed a large vase ofroses on a table close to the window near the door.
Miss Van Tuyn happened to see this action, and a vagrant thought slippedthrough her mind. "Then we are not the last!"
"My nerves are certainly not fiddle strings," she said. "But I haveinterests which pull me towards Paris."
"Greater interests here. Have some more champagne! Raoul!"
"M'sieu!"
"You can't deceive me, Beryl."
"Your pose of omniscience bores me. Apart from your gift you're a veryordinary man, Dick, if you could only be brought to see it."
"Arabian fascinates you."
"He doesn't."
"And that's why you're afraid of him. You're afraid of his power becauseyou don't trust him. He's doing a lot for you. You're waking up. You'rebecoming interesting. A few days ago you were only a beautiful spoiltAmerican girl, as cool and as hard as ice, brainy, vain, and totallywithout temperament as far as one could see. Your torch was unlit. Nowthis blackguard's put the match to it."
"What nonsense, Dick!"
"Raoul!"
"M'sieu?"
"That's all very well. But my intention is to paint him, not you. Whydon't you get to work hard? Why don't you put your back into it?"
"This is beyond bearing, Dick, even from you!"
She was looking really indignant. Her cheeks and forehead had reddened,her eyes seemed to spit fire at him, and her hands trembled.
"Your absolute lack of decent consideration is--you're canaille! Becauseyou're impotent to paint I am to--no, it's too much! Canaille! Canaille!That's what you are! I shall go back to Paris. I shall--"
Suddenly she stopped speaking and stared. The red faded out of her face.A curiously conscious and intent look came into her eyes. She began tomove her head as if in recognition of some one, stopped and sat rigid,pressing her lips together till her mouth had a hard grim line. Garstin,who could only see her and the wall at her back, watched all this withsharp interest, then, growing curious, turned round. As he did so he sawa tall, very handsome dark girl, who had certainly not been in the roomwhen he entered it, going slowly, and as if reluctantly, towards thedoorway. She was obviously a woman of the demi-monde and probablyFrench. As she reached the door she turned her smart, impudent head andcovered Miss Van Tuyn with an appraising look, cold, keen, vicious inits detached intensity, a look such as only a woman can send to anotherwoman.
Then she went out, followed by Raoul, who seemed rather agitated, andwhose back looked appealing.
"Black hair with blue lights in it!" said Garstin. "What a beauty!"
Miss Van Tuyn sighed.
"Why wouldn't she stay?"
He was still sitting half turned towards the door.
"A table with flowers all ready for her! And she goes! Was she alone?Ah--who was with her?"
"Arabian!" said Miss Van Tuyn, coldly.
"And he--"
"He saw us!"
"And took her away! What a lark! Too timid to face us! The naughty boycaught out in an escapade! I'll chaff him to-morrow. All their dinnerwasted, and I'll bet it was a good one."
He chuckled over his wine.
"Did he know that you saw him?"
"I don't know. He was behind her. He barely showed himself, saw us andvanished. He must have called to her, beckoned from the hall. She wentquite up to the table."
"So--you've taught him timidity! He doesn't want you to know of hisunder life."
"Oh, for heaven's sake let us talk of something else!" said Miss VanTuyn, with an almost passionate note of exasperation. "You bore me,bore me, bore me with this man! He seems becoming an obsession with you.Paint him, for God's sake, and then let there be an end of him as far aswe are concerned. There are lots of other men better-looking than he is.But once you have taken an idea into your head there is no peace untilyou have worked it out on canvas. Genius it may be, but it's terriblytiresome to everyone about you. Paint the man--and then let him sinkback into the depths!"
"Like a sea monster, eh?"
"He is horrible. I always knew it."
"Come, now! You told me--"
"It doesn't matter what I told you. He is horrible."
"What! Just because he comes out to dine with a pretty girl of a certainclass? I had no idea you were such a Puritan. Raoul!"
"M'sieu!"
Garstin was evidently enjoying himself.
"I know those women! Arabian's catching it like the devil in ConduitStreet. She's giving him something he'll remember."
"No!" said Miss Van Tuyn, with hard emphasis.r />
"What d'you mean?"
"I mean that Arabian is the sort of man who can frighten women. Now ifyou don't talk of something else I shall leave you here alone. Anotherword on that subject and I go!"
"Tell me, Beryl. What do you really think of Wyndham Lewis? You know hisportrait of Ezra Pound?"
"Of course I do."
"Don't you think it's a masterpiece?"
"Do you? I can never get at your real ideas about modern painting."
"And I thought I wore them all down in my own pictures."
"You certainly don't sit on the fence when you paint."
And then they talked pictures. Perhaps Garstin at that moment for oncelaid himself out to be charming. He could fascinate Miss Van Tuyn's mindwhen he chose. She respected his brain. It could lure her. As a workershe secretly almost loved Garstin, and she believed that the world wouldremember him when he was gone to the shadows and the dust.
Two champagne bottles had been emptied when they got up to go. Thelittle room was deserted and had a look of being settled in for thenight. Raoul took his tip and yawned behind his big yellow hand. As MissVan Tuyn was about to leave the restaurant he bent down to the floor andpicked up a paper which had fallen against the wall near her seat.
"Madame--" he began.
Miss Van Tuyn, who was on her way to the door, did not hear him, andGarstin swiftly and softly took the paper and slipped it into the pocketof his overcoat. When he had said good-bye to Beryl he went back toGlebe Place. He mounted the stairs to the studio on the first floor,turned on the lights, went to the Spanish cabinet, poured himself out adrink, lit one of the black cigars, then sat down in a worn arm-chair,put his feet on the sofa, and unfolded _The Westminster Gazette_. Whathad she been reading so intently? What was it in the paper that had goton her nerves?
The political news, the weather, the leading article, notes, reviews ofnew books. He looked carefully at each of the reviews. Not there! Thenhe began to read the news of the day, but found nothing which seemedto him capable of gripping Beryl's attention. Finally, he turned to thelast page but one of the paper, saw the heading, "Our Paris Letter," andgave the thrush's call softly. Paris--Beryl! This was sure to be it.He began to read, and almost immediately was absorbed. His browscontracted, his lips went up towards his long, hooked nose. A stronglight shone in his hard, intelligent eyes, eyes surely endowed with thepower to pierce into hidden places. Presently he put the paper down. Sothat was it! That was why Beryl had been so startled when he touched herin the restaurant!
He got up and walked to the easel on which was the new sketch forArabian's portrait, stood before it and looked at it for a very longtime. And all the time he stood there what he had just read was in hismind. Fear! The fascination of fear! There were women who could onlylove what they could also fear. Perhaps Beryl was one of them. Perhapsunderneath all her audacity, her self-possession, her "damned cheek,"her abnormal vanity, there was the thing that could shrink, and quiver,and love the brute.
Was that her secret? And his? Arabian's?
Garstin threw himself down presently and looked at the paper again.The article which he felt sure had gripped Miss Van Tuyn's attentiondescribed a new play which had just made a sensation in Paris. A woman,apparently courageous almost to hardness, self-engrossed, beautifuland cold, became in this play fascinated by a man about whom she knewnothing, whom she did not understand, who was not in her circle ofsociety, who knew none of her friends, who came from she knew not where.Her instinct hinted to her that there was in him something abominable.She distrusted him. She was even afraid of him. But he made an enormousimpression upon her. And she said of him to a man who warned her againsthim, "But he means a great deal to me and other men mean little ornothing. There is something in him which speaks to me and in othersthere is nothing but silence. There is something in him which leads mealong a path and others leave me standing where I am."
Eventually, against the warning of her own instinct, and, as it were, inspite of herself, she gave herself up to the man, and after a very shortassociation with him--only a few days--he strangled her. She had a longand very beautiful neck. Hidden in him was a homicidal tendency.Her throat had drawn his hands, and, behind his hands, him. And she?Apparently she had been drawn to the murderer hidden in him, to thestrong, ruthless, terribly intent, crouching thing that wanted todestroy her.
As the writer of the article pointed out, the play was a Grand Guignolpiece produced away from its proper environment. It was called _The Lureof Destruction_.
How Beryl had started when a hand had touched her in the restaurant! Andhow angry she had been afterwards! Garstin smiled as he rememberedher anger. But she had looked wonderful. She might be worth paintingpresently. He did not really care to paint a Ceres. But she was rapidlylosing the Ceres look.
Before he went to bed he again stood in front of the scarcely begunsketch for the portrait of Arabian, and looked at it for a long time.His face became grim and set as he looked. Presently he moved his lipsas if he were saying something to a listener within. And the listenerheard:
"In the underworld--but is the fellow a king?"
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