The artist was reasserting the
old superiority over him which the visitor had found so irritating, and
it was Iron's instinct to meet this by an air of bluster.
"Very well," Arthur said. "We may then consider what you are pleased to
call our account as closed."
He walked forward deliberately and laid the paper he held on the heap
of glowing coals in the grate. It curled and shrivelled, and before
Irons could even compress his thick lips to whistle, nothing remained
of the document but a quivering film.
"Well," Irons commented, "you are a damned fool; but then that's your
own business."
The artist bowed gravely.
"Naturally," he replied.
He stood waiting as if he expected his caller to go, and, despite
himself, Irons felt that he was being bowed out of the studio. He took
his leave awkwardly, feeling that he had somehow been beaten with
trumps in his hand, and hating Fenton ten times more heartily than
ever.
"The confounded snob!" he muttered under his breath, as he went down
the stairs of Studio Building. "He puts on damned high-headed airs; but
I'm not done with him yet."
And Fenton meanwhile stood looking at that thin fluttering film on the
red coals with despair in his heart. He had taken the money which he
imperatively needed to pay notes soon due, and invested in Princeton
Platinum, with which the obliging Erastus Snaffle had supplied him out
of pure generosity, if one could credit the seller's statements; and he
had been secretly depending for relief upon this very gift from Irons
which he had destroyed.
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