Chapter VII
It was Press Day. The critics had begun to arrive; Mr. Albemarle circulated among them with a ducal amiability. The young assistant hovered vaguely about, straining to hear what the great men had to say and trying to pretend that he wasn’t eavesdropping. Lypiatt’s pictures hung on the walls, and Lypiatt’s catalogue, thick with its preface and its explanatory notes, was in all hands.
“Very strong,” Mr. Albemarle kept repeating, “very strong indeed!” It was his password for the day.
Little Mr. Clew, who represented the Daily Post, was inclined to be enthusiastic. “How well he writes!” he said to Mr. Albemarle, looking up from the catalogue. “And how well he paints! What impasto.”
Impasto, impasto—the young assistant sidled off unobtrusively to the desk and made a note of it.
