A leering smile came over his
coarse features. Without a word he went over to the most distant corner
of the studio, where he apparently became absorbed in studying a sketch
hanging on the wall.
There was a dead silence of some moments. Fenton was literally
speechless with rage, yet, too, his quick wit was busy devising some
way of escape from the unpleasant predicament in which he found
himself. He did not speak, nor did Mr. Irons turn until Ninitta had
completed her toilet and slipped hastily out. As the door closed after
her, Irons wheeled about and confronted the indignant artist with a
smile of triumphant glee.
"Sly dog!" he said.
Fenton advanced a step toward his tormentor with his clenched hand half
raised as if he would strike.
"What do you mean?" he demanded. "Do you call yourself a gentleman?"
"Oh, come, now," the other responded, with an easy wave of the hand,
"no heroics, if you please. They won't go down with me. She's a
devilish fine woman, and I don't blame you."
"I tell you," began Fenton, "you"--
"Oh, of course, of course. I know all that. But sit down while I say
something to you."
As if under the constraining influence of a nightmare, Fenton obeyed
when Mr. Irons, having seated himself in an easy chair, waved him into
another with a commanding gesture. The artist felt himself to have lost
his place as the stronger of the two, of which he had hitherto been
proudly conscious, and he sat angrily gnawing his lip while his
tormentor regarded him with smiling malice.
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