'll remember."

"No!" said Miss Van Tuyn, with hard emphasis.

"What d'you mean?"

"I mean that Arabian is the sort of man who can frighten women. Now if
you don't talk of something else I shall leave you here alone. Another
word on that subject and I go!"

"Tell me, Beryl. What do you really thing of Wyndham Lewis? You know his
portrait 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 once
laid himself out to be charming. He could fascinate Miss Van Tuyn's mind
when he chose. She respected his brain. It could lure her. As a worker
she secretly almost loved Garstin, and she believed that the world would
remember him when he was gone to the shadows and the dust.

Two champagne bottles had been emptied when they got up to go. The
little room was deserted and had a look of being settled in for the
night. Raoul took his tip and yawned behind his big yellow hand. As Miss
Van Tuyn was about to leave the restaurant he bent down to the floor and
picked 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, and
Garstin swiftly and softly took the paper and slipped it into the pocket
of his overcoat. When he had said good-bye to Beryl he went back to
Glebe Place. He mounted the stairs to the studio on the first floor,
turned on the lights, went to the Spanish cabinet, poured himself out a
drink, 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_. What
had she been reading so intently? What was it in the paper that had got
on her nerves?

The political news, the weather, the leading article, notes, reviews of
new books. He looked carefully at each of the reviews. Not there! Then
he began to read the news of the day, but found nothing which seemed
to him capable of gripping Beryl's attention. Finally, he turned to the
last page but one of the paper, saw the heading, "Our Paris Letter," and
gave the thrush's call softly. Paris--Beryl! This was sure to be it.
He began to read, and almost immediately was absorbed. His brows
contracted, his lips went up towards his long, hooked nos