— What happened! What do you mean, what happened.
— You know very well what I mean, Valentine answered after all these minutes of silence which Brown was, finally, unable to sustain.
— You've seen him, Brown broke out, suddenly turning on Valentine.
— I give you my word, I haven't though.
— Your word! Recktall Brown muttered, turning away once more. — He went after you. He left here to go after you.
— So I understand.
— There! What do you mean, you didn't see him.
— My dear man, I haven't seen him in some time, please get that straight. Fuller mentioned that he'd gone off looking for me, why, I cannot imagine.
— You can't imagine! You God damn well can imagine. Valentine has the proof, he said to me right square in my face, I left it with him… so what the hell did he mean? Recktall Brown turned his heavy face up again; and Basil Valentine faintly smiled, and as faintly shrugged.
— You expect him back then?
— How the hell do I know. Sure I expect him back. Don't you?
— And nothing happened when he was here earlier? No one. .
— Nobody would listen to him. Brown lowered his eyes again to the table before him. His cigar stood out between fingers as thick as itself in his left hand hanging beside him; and he raised his right hand to wipe his mouth.
— Still, it is rather embarrassing. You know, Basil Valentine said, falling into his familiar caustic tone, — you do sound rather disappointed?
Recktall Brown did not move. He did not even raise the cigar; but stood, staring down at that table. His forehead glistened.
— Now listen, Brown, I don't know what's got into you tonight besides a gallon of liquor, but you. .
— That last picture he did, Brown interrupted, raising his cigar and looking over the room, — there's some people here who I want to have a look at it.
At that point Brown started round one side of the table, and Basil Valentine came rapidly after him round the other.
The cigarette in Crémer's mouth had gone out at about a thumbnail's length, and stuck there as he discussed a contemporary French painter, who was, he said, — Racinien, vous savez. . le gout de Ten deçà. L'instinct de. . de I'atticisme, alors. Comme Corot, comme Seurat, vous savez, il est racinien. Comme je viens d'écrire, supreme fleur du genie francais et qui ne pouvait pousser qu'en France. . With that Crémer stopped, raised an eyebrow, and carefully removed the blemish from his lip with a thumb and third finger, in anticipation of his host.
Recktall Brown swerved, as Valentine grabbed his arm when they met coming round the foot of the low table before the fireplace.
— Wait a minute now. .
— Let go!… let go of my arm.
— Wait, listen!. . you can't do this. .
— God damn it let go of my arm. Recktall Brown stopped abruptly, and Valentine swung around almost before him.
— What's the matter with you tonight? What the devil's the matter with you?
— Not a God damn thing the matter with me. .
— Listen now, listen to me, Valentine said, trying to take him by both arms now. — Don't be an idiot, you can't show another one now, you can't show this one so soon… — Get out of the way.
— Do you think these men are fools? do you think they're children? And after what's just happened do you think you can take them in there and show them another van der Goes without. .
Several people turned at Recktall Brown's laughter, which rose about him there in the middle of the vast room in an eructation of smoke. — And show them your face, hey? You think they'll laugh at your face, hey? Get out of the way.
Basil Valentine stepped back quickly. He opened a white handkerchief and paused to cough into it, as Recktall Brown went on. When he caught up, Crémer was saying, — Tell us, Monsieur Brown, for you which is the most beautiful. . objet, in your present collection.
Recktall Brown stood before them with the cigar in one end of his mouth, uneven teeth discoloring his grin, the pupils of his eyes filling the lenses. He did not pause to consider but threw a hand up. Those before him startled back at this gesture; but Basil Valentine, arriving beside him, did not, and got the blow square in the face.
The handkerchief reddened as he held it up to his lip; but Brown did not even pause to look at the diamonds. — That! he said, pointing; and though they had started immediately to solicit Valentine on his injury, he had excused himself and was gone, and each of them was staring up at the balcony, and the suit of armor there, before he knew it.
Crémer recovered quickly. He took a loosely made cigarette from the battered blue packet and returned his eyes to his host. — Quelle drôlerie!
Recktall Brown looked back to see their eyes upon him, slightly quizzical, only Crémer looking at him with a penetration equal to that of Basil Valentine, whom, in a dismally obvious, badly dressed way, he rather resembled.
— You don't like it? Brown burst out, addressing himself directly to Crémer.
— Ah mais oui, mais. . c'est charmant. . Nevertheless Crémer took a step back now, and the smile faded from his face as he looked at Brown's.
Recktall Brown looked up at the other two men in quick turn, and then he suddenly took off his glasses and startled them all three with the sharpness of his eyes, which he lowered then, and wiped his forehead with the ends of his fingers. They were silent and attentive while he put the glasses back on, and said, peremptorily, — Come with me, I've got something to show you. He turned, signaling three or four other people with his nod, and they followed him toward the panel door in the other end of the room. Mr. Schmuck joined them, halfway across, Mr. Sonnenschein three-quarters, and Basil Valentine reached them before they were all through that door, and closed it behind him.
— They've gone in to look at dirty movies, said Miss Stein, watching them. — Art pictures the boss calls them. Too late, she had taken a step to follow.
The tall woman was deflected from her course by a plump hand which hit her in the breast. She did not pause for an apology; and the bearded youth did not pursue her to offer one. He went right on with, — No, the story was published over there, and of course I have every right to sue her, she's ru-ined my London reputation.
— But you've never been in London, have you?
— Well I might go… so there! No, don't you touch me. . I'm going right over and discuss Martin Schoongauer's etchings with that exquisitely fifteenth-century-looking person.
The tall woman interrupted her husband, who was absorbed in saying nothing to anyone. — Oh dear, I always say the wrong thing, I just don't stand a' Chinaman's chance. . Then her voice stopped, as her eyes were halted by the man at her elbow whom she had met as Mr. Kuvetli. — A Chinese person's chance. . she faltered on, bravely, — Oh dear, I do try. .