‘Well,’ said Parish, ‘she’s an attractive wench. More “It” to the square inch than most of them. It’s hard to say why. She’s got looks, of course, but not the looks that usually get over that way. Not the voluptuous type. Her—’

‘Shut up,’ said Cubitt violently and added: ‘I’m going to paint your mouth.’

His own was set in an unusually tight line. He worked for a time in silence, stood back, and said abruptly:

‘I don’t really think Will Pomeroy was his objective. He was getting at Legge, and why the devil he should pick on a man he’d never seen in his life until last night is more than I can tell.’

‘I thought he seemed to be sort of probing. Trying to corner Legge in some way.’

Cubitt paused with his knife over the canvas.

‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘That’s perfectly true. I thought so too. Trick of the trade perhaps. Counsels curiosity. Almost one expected him to put his foot on the seat of a chair and rest his elbow on his knee. Now I come to think of it, I believe he did hitch his coat up by the lapels.’

‘Characteristic,’ pronounced Parish seriously. He himself had used these touches several times in trial scenes.

Cubitt smiled. ‘But he sounded definitely malicious,’ he added.

‘He’s not malicious,’ said Parish uncomfortably.

‘Oh yes, he is,’ said Cubitt coolly. ‘It’s one of his more interesting qualities. He can be very malicious.’

‘He can be very generous too.’

‘I’m sure he can. I like Luke, you know. He interests me enormously.’

‘Apparently, he likes you,’ said Parish. ‘Apparently.’

‘Hallo!’ Cubitt walked back from his canvas and stood squinting at it. ‘You said that with a wealth of meaning, Seb. What’s in the air? You can rest a minute if you like.’

Parish moved off the boulder where he had been sitting, stretched himself elaborately, and joined Cubitt. He gazed solemnly at his own portrait. It was a large canvas. The figure in the dull red sweater was three-quarter life-size. It was presented as a dark form against the lighter background which was the sea and sky. The sky appeared as a series of paling arches, the sea as a simple plane broken by formalized waves. A glint of sunlight had found the cheek and jawbone on the right side of the face.

‘Marvellous, old boy,’ said Parish. ‘Marvellous!’

Cubitt, who disliked being called ‘old boy,’ grunted.

‘Did you say you’d show it in this year’s Academy?’ asked Parish.

‘I didn’t, Seb, but I will. I’ll stifle my æsthetic conscience, prostitute my undoubted genius, and send your portrait to join the annual assembly of cadavers. Do you prefer “Portrait of an Actor”, “Sebastian Parish, Esq”! or simply “Sebastian Parish”?’

‘I think I would like my name,’ said Parish seriously. ‘Not, I mean, that everybody wouldn’t know—’