"
"Oh, I don't mind," Irons said, advancing into the studio. "I'll look
round until you are ready."
"But I never admit sitters when I have a model," Fenton protested,
standing before him. "I shall have to ask you to go."
The other stopped and looked at the artist with suspicion in his eyes.
"What a fuss you make," he commented coarsely. "No intrigue, I
suppose?"
A hot flush sprang into Fenton's face. He tried to assume a haughty
air, but the consciousness of being entrapped in a misdemeanor had not
left him. The need of getting Mrs. Herman out of the studio unseen
would have been awkward at any time; when to this was added the sense
of guilt and shame which was begotten of the base impulse to which he
had almost yielded, the situation became for him painfully
embarrassing.
"I am not in the habit of carrying on intrigues with my models," he
replied, haughtily. "Or," he added, regaining self-possession, "of
discussing my affairs with others."
Mr. Irons laughed in a significant way which made Arthur long to kill
him on the spot, and, stepping past Fenton, he walked further into the
studio.
"Don't put on airs with me," he said. "Your looks give you away. You've
been up to some mischief."
He paused an instant before the unfinished picture on the easel, then
when the artist coolly took the canvas and placed it with its face to
the wall, he turned with deliberate rudeness and craned his neck so
that he could look behind the screen.
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