"You wish to make a portrait of me?"

"I do--in oils."

"Will it take long?"

"I couldn't say. I might be a week over it, or less, or more. I shall
want you every day."

"And when it is done?" said Arabian. "What happens to it?"

"If it's up to the mark--my mark--I shall want to exhibit it."

Arabian said nothing for a moment. He seemed to be thinking rather
seriously, and presently his large eyes turned towards Miss Van Tuyn for
an instant, almost, she thought, as if they wished to consult her, to
read in her eyes something which might help him to a decision. She felt
that the man was flattered by Garstin's request, but she felt also that
something--she did not know what--held him back from granting it. And
again she wondered about him.

What was he? She could not divine. She looked at him and felt that she
was looking at a book not one of whose pages she could read. And yet
she thought he had what is sometimes called an "open" face. There was
nothing sly in the expression of his eyes. They met other eyes steadily,
sometimes with a sort of frank audacity, sometimes with--apparently--an
almost pleading wistfulness.

Finally, as if coming to a conclusion as to what he considered it wise
to do for the moment, Arabian said: