Mr. Brewster was standing in a frozen attitude. His strong face was slightly flushed.
"What—what?" he gurgled.
Mr. Brewster was not in one of his sunniest moods that morning. The proprietor of a large hotel has many things to disturb him, and to-day things had been going wrong. He had come up to his suite with the idea of restoring his shaken nerve-system with a quiet cigar, and the sight of his son-in-law had, as so frequently happened, made him feel worse than ever. But, when Archie had descended from the chair and moved aside to allow him an uninterrupted view of the picture, Mr. Brewster realised that a worse thing had befallen him than a mere visit from one who always made him feel that the world was a bleak place.
He stared at the Venus dumbly. Unlike most hotel-proprietors, Daniel Brewster was a connoisseur of Art. Connoisseuring was, in fact, his hobby. Even the public rooms of the Cosmopolis were decorated with taste, and his own private suite was a shrine of all that was best and most artistic. His tastes were quiet and restrained, and it is not too much to say that the Wigmore Venus hit him behind the ear like a stuffed eel-skin.
So great was the shock that for some moments it kept him silent, and before he could recover speech Archie had explained.
"It's a birthday present from Lucille, don't you know."
Mr. Brewster crushed down the breezy speech he had intended to utter.
"Lucille gave me—that?" he muttered.
He swallowed pathetically. He was suffering, but the iron courage of the Brewsters stood him in good stead.
