His annoyance robbed his
speech of its normal stateliness. He struck a colloquial note unusual
with him.
"I guess you know what I've come about," he said.
He had found Kirk alone in the studio, as ill luck would have it. In
the absence of Ruth he ventured to speak more freely than he would have
done in her presence.
"It's an infernal outrage," he went on. "I've been stung, and you know
it."
Kirk said nothing. His silence infuriated Bailey.
"It's the portrait I'm speaking about--the portrait, if you have the
nerve to call it that, of Miss Wilbur. I was against her sitting to you
from the first, but she insisted. Now she's sorry."
"It's as bad as all that, is it?" said Kirk dully. He felt curiously
indisposed to fight. A listlessness had gripped him. He was even a
little sorry for Bailey. He saw his point of view and sympathized with
it.
"Yes," said Bailey fiercely. "It is, and you know it."
Kirk nodded. Bailey was quite right. He did know it.
"It's a joke," went on Bailey shrilly. "I can't hang it up. People
would laugh at it. And to think that I paid you all that money for it.
I could have got a real artist for half the price."
"That is easily remedied," said Kirk. "I will send you a cheque
to-morrow."
Bailey was not to be appeased. The venom of more than three years cried
out for utterance.
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