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. 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?"