"Meticulous, eh?" said Klein.

"To the point of being mechanical."

"Now, now, no sour grapes."

"I mean it. It's just too perfect for words. You put this in the market and the game's up. Now, the Modigliani's another matter—"

"That was a technical exercise," Klein said. "I can't sell that. The man only painted a dozen pictures. It's the Poussin I'm betting on."

"Don't. You'll get stung. Mind if I get another drink?"

Gentle headed back through the house to the lounge, Klein following, muttering to himself.

"You've got a good eye. Gentle," he said, "but you're unreliable. You'll find another woman and off you'll go."

"Not this time."

"And I wasn't kidding about the market. There's no room for bullshit."

"Did you ever have a problem with a piece I painted?"

Klein mused on this. "No," he admitted.

"I've got a Gauguin in New York. Those Fuseli sketches I did—"

"Berlin. Oh, yes, you've made your little mark."

"Nobody's ever going to know it, of course."

"They will. In a hundred years' time your Fuselis will look as old as they are, not as old as they should be. People will start to investigate, and you, my Bastard Boy, will be discovered. And so will Kenny Soames and Gideon: all my deceivers."

"And you'll be vilified for bribing us. Denying the twentieth century all that originality."

"Originality, shit. It's an overrated commodity, you know that. You can be a visionary painting Virgins."

"That's what I'll do, then. Virgins in any style. I'll be celibate, and I'll paint Madonnas all day. With child. Without child. Weeping. Blissful. I'll work my balls off, Kleiny, which'll be fine because I won't need them."