He would look at Michael and say nothing, in accordance with the best English traditions, and his own dignity. It was he who revived the idea of Fleur’s being painted by June’s “lame duck.” He felt it would occupy her mind still further. He would like, however, to see the fellow’s work first, though he supposed it would mean a visit to June’s.
“If she were to be out,” he said to Fleur, “I shouldn’t mind having a look round her studio.”
“Shall I arrange that, then, Dad?”
“Not too pointedly,” said Soames; “or she’ll get into a fantod.”
Accordingly at the following week-end Fleur said to him:
“If you’ll come up with me on Monday, dear, we’ll go round. The Rafaelite will be in, but June won’t. She doesn’t want to see you any more than you want to see her.”
“H’m!” said Soames. “She always spoke her mind.”
They went up, in his car. After forming his opinion Soames was to return, and Fleur to go on home. The Rafaelite met them at the head of the stairs. To Soames he suggested a bullfighter (not that he had ever seen one in the flesh), with his short whiskers, and his broad, pale face which wore the expression: “If you suppose yourself capable of appreciating my work, you make a mistake.” Soames’ face, on the other hand, wore the expression: “If you suppose that I want to see your work, you make a greater.” And, leaving him to Fleur, he began to look round. In truth he was not unfavourably impressed. The work had turned its back on modernity. The surfaces were smooth, the drawing in perspective, and the colouring full. He perceived a new note, or rather the definite revival of an old one. The chap had undoubted talent; whether it would go down in these days he did not know, but its texture was more agreeable to live with than any he had seen for some time. When he came to the portrait of June he stood for a minute, with his head on one side, and then said, with a pale smile:
“You’ve got her to the life.” It pleased him to think that June had evidently not seen in it what he saw. But when his eyes fell on the picture of Anne, his face fell, too, and he looked quickly at Fleur, who said:
“Yes, Dad? What do you think of that?”
The thought had flashed through Soames’ mind: ‘Is it to get in touch with HIM that she’s ready to be painted?’
“Finished?” he asked.
The Rafaelite answered:
“Yes. Going down to them tomorrow.”
Soames’ face rose again. That risk was over then!
“Quite clever!” he murmured. “The lily’s excellent.” And he passed on to a sketch of the woman who had opened the door to them.
“That’s recognisable! Not at all bad.”
In these quiet ways he made it clear that, while he approved on the whole, he was not going to pay any extravagant price. He took an opportunity when Fleur was out of hearing, and said:
“So you want to paint my daughter. What’s your figure?”
“A hundred and fifty.”
“Rather tall for these days–you’re a young man. However–so long as you make a good thing of it!”
The Rafaelite bowed ironically.
“Yes,” said Soames, “I daresay; you think all your geese are swans–never met a painter who didn’t. You won’t keep her sitting long, I suppose–she’s busy. That’s agreed, then. Goodbye! Don’t come down!”
As they went out he said to Fleur:
“I’ve fixed that. You can begin sitting when you like. His work’s better than you’d think from the look of him. Forbidding chap, I call him.”
“A painter has to be forbidding, Dad; otherwise people would think he was cadging.”
“Something in that,” said Soames. “I’ll get back now, as you won’t let me take you home. Good-bye! Take care of yourself, and don’t overdo it.” And, receiving her kiss, he got into the car.
Fleur began to walk towards her eastward-bound ‘bus as his car moved west, nor did he see her stop, give him some law, then retrace her steps to June’s.
Chapter III.
POSSESSING THE SOUL
Just as in a very old world to find things or people of pure descent is impossible, so with actions; and the psychologist who traces them to single motives is like Soames, who believed that his daughter wanted to be painted in order that she might see herself hanging on a wall. Everybody, he knew, had themselves hung sooner or later, and generally sooner. Yet Fleur, though certainly not averse to being hung, had motives that were hardly so single as all that. In the service of this complexity, she went back to June’s. That little lady, who had been lurking in her bedroom so as not to meet her kinsman, was in high feather.
“Of course the price is nominal,” she said. “Harold ought really to be getting every bit as much for his portraits as Thom or Lippen. Still, it’s so important for him to be making something while he’s waiting to take his real place. What have you come back for?
“Partly for the pleasure of seeing you,” said Fleur, “and partly because we forgot to arrange for the first sitting. I think my best time would be three o’clock.”
“Yes,” murmured June, doubtfully, not so much from doubt as from not having suggested it herself. “I think Harold could manage that. Isn’t his work exquisite?”
“I particularly like the thing he’s done of Anne. It’s going down to them tomorrow, I hear.”
“Yes; Jon’s coming to fetch it.”
Fleur looked hastily into the little dim mirror to see that she was keeping expression off her face.
“What do you think I ought to wear?”
June’s gaze swept her from side to side.
“Oh! I expect he’ll want an artificial scheme with you.”
“Exactly! But what colour? One must come in something.”
“We’ll go up and ask him.”
The Rafaelite was standing before his picture of Anne. He turned and looked at them, without precisely saying: “Good Lord! These women!” and nodded, gloomily, at the suggestion of three o’clock.
“What do you want her in?” asked June.
The Rafaelite stared at Fleur as if determining where her ribs left off and her hip bones began.
“Gold and silver,” he said, at last.
June clasped her hands.
“Now, isn’t that extraordinary? He’s seen through you at once. Your gold and silver room. Harold, how DID you?”
“I happen to have an old ‘Folly’ dress,” said Fleur, “silver and gold, with bells, that I haven’t worn since I was married.”
“A ‘Folly’!” cried June. “The very thing. If it’s pretty. Some are hideous, of course.”
“Oh! it’s pretty, and makes a charming sound.”
“He can’t paint that,” said June. Then added dreamily: “But you could suggest it, Harold–like Leonardo.”
“Leonardo!”
“Oh! Of course! I know, he wasn’t–”
The Rafaelite interrupted.
“Don’t make your face up,” he said to Fleur.
“No,” murmured Fleur. “June, I do so like that of Anne. Has it struck you that she’s sure to want Jon painted now?”
“Of course, I’ll make him promise when he comes tomorrow.”
“He’s going to begin farming, you know; he’ll make that an excuse. Men hate being painted.”
“Oh, that’s all nonsense,” said June. “In old days they loved it. Anyway, Jon must sit before he begins. They’ll make a splendid pair.”
Behind the Rafaelite’s back Fleur bit her lip.
“He must wear a turn-down shirt. Blue, don’t you think, Harold–to go with his hair?”
“Pink, with green spots,” muttered the Rafaelite.
“Then three o’clock tomorrow?” said Fleur, hastily.
June nodded. “Jon’s coming to lunch, so he’ll be gone before you come.”
“All right, then. Au revoir!”
She held her hand out to the Rafaelite, who seemed surprised at the gesture.
“Good-bye, June!”
June came suddenly close and kissed her on the chin. At that moment the little lady’s face looked soft and pink, and her eyes soft; her lips were warm, too, as if she were warm all through.
Fleur went away thinking: ‘Ought I to have asked her not to tell Jon I was going to be painted?’ But surely June, the warm, the single-eyed, would never tell Jon anything that might stop him being useful to her Rafaelite. She stood, noting the geography around “the Poplars.” The only approach to this backwater was by a road that dipped into it and came out again. Just here, she would not be seen from the house, and could see Jon leaving after lunch whichever way he went. But then he would have to take a taxi, for the picture. It struck her bitterly that she, who had been his first-adored, should have to scheme to see him. But if she didn’t, she would never see him! Ah! what a ninny she had been at Wansdon in those old days when her room was next to his. One little act, and nothing could have kept him from her for all time, not his mother nor the old feud; not her father; nothing; and then there had been no vows of hers or his, no Michael, no Kit, no nymph-eyed girl in barrier between them; nothing but youth and innocence. And it seemed to her that youth and innocence were over-rated.
She lit on no plan by which she could see him without giving away the fact that she had schemed. She would have to possess her soul a little longer. Let him once get his head into the painter’s noose, and there would be not one but many chances.
She arrived at three o’clock with her Folly’s dress, and was taken into June’s bedroom to put it on.
“It’s just right,” said June; “delightfully artificial. Harold will love it.”
“I wonder,” said Fleur. The Rafaelite’s temperament had not yet struck her as very loving. They went up to the studio without having mentioned Jon.
The portrait of Anne was gone. And when June went to fetch “the exact thing” to cover a bit of background, Fleur said at once:
“Well? Are you going to paint my cousin Jon?”
The Rafaelite nodded.
“He didn’t want to be, but SHE made him.”
“When do you begin?”
“To-morrow,” said the Rafaelite. “He’s coming every morning for a week. What’s the good of a week?”
“If he’s only got a week I should have thought he’d better stay here.”
“He won’t without his wife, and his wife’s got a cold.”
“Oh!” said Fleur, and she thought rapidly. “Wouldn’t it be more convenient, then, for him to sit early in the afternoons? I could come in the mornings; in fact, I’d rather–one feels fresher. June could give him a trunk call.”
The Rafaelite uttered what she judged to be an approving sound. When she left, she said to June: “I want to come at ten every morning, then I get my afternoons free for my ‘Rest House’ down at Dorking. Couldn’t you get Jon to come in the afternoons instead? It would suit him better. Only don’t let him know I’m being painted–my picture won’t be recognisable for a week, anyway.”
“Oh!” said June, “you’re quite wrong, there. Harold always gets an unmistakable likeness at once; but of course he’ll put it face to the wall, he always does while he’s at work on a picture.”
“Good! He’s made quite a nice start. Then if you’ll telephone to Jon, I’ll come tomorrow at ten.” And for yet another day she possessed her soul. On the day after, she nodded at a canvas whose face was to the wall, and asked:
“Do you find my cousin a good sitter?”
“No,” said the Rafaelite; “he takes no interest. Got something on his mind, I should think.”
“He’s a poet, you know,” said Fleur.
The Rafaelite gave her an epileptic stare. “Poet! His head’s the wrong shape–too much jaw, and the eyes too deep in.”
“But his hair! Don’t you find him an attractive subject?”
“Attractive!” replied the Rafaelite–“I paint anything, whether it’s pretty or ugly as sin. Look at Rafael’s Pope–did you ever see a better portrait, or an uglier man?
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“If she were to be out,” he said to Fleur, “I shouldn’t mind having a look round her studio.”
“Shall I arrange that, then, Dad?”
“Not too pointedly,” said Soames; “or she’ll get into a fantod.”
Accordingly at the following week-end Fleur said to him:
“If you’ll come up with me on Monday, dear, we’ll go round. The Rafaelite will be in, but June won’t. She doesn’t want to see you any more than you want to see her.”
“H’m!” said Soames. “She always spoke her mind.”
They went up, in his car. After forming his opinion Soames was to return, and Fleur to go on home. The Rafaelite met them at the head of the stairs. To Soames he suggested a bullfighter (not that he had ever seen one in the flesh), with his short whiskers, and his broad, pale face which wore the expression: “If you suppose yourself capable of appreciating my work, you make a mistake.” Soames’ face, on the other hand, wore the expression: “If you suppose that I want to see your work, you make a greater.” And, leaving him to Fleur, he began to look round. In truth he was not unfavourably impressed. The work had turned its back on modernity. The surfaces were smooth, the drawing in perspective, and the colouring full. He perceived a new note, or rather the definite revival of an old one. The chap had undoubted talent; whether it would go down in these days he did not know, but its texture was more agreeable to live with than any he had seen for some time. When he came to the portrait of June he stood for a minute, with his head on one side, and then said, with a pale smile:
“You’ve got her to the life.” It pleased him to think that June had evidently not seen in it what he saw. But when his eyes fell on the picture of Anne, his face fell, too, and he looked quickly at Fleur, who said:
“Yes, Dad? What do you think of that?”
The thought had flashed through Soames’ mind: ‘Is it to get in touch with HIM that she’s ready to be painted?’
“Finished?” he asked.
The Rafaelite answered:
“Yes. Going down to them tomorrow.”
Soames’ face rose again. That risk was over then!
“Quite clever!” he murmured. “The lily’s excellent.” And he passed on to a sketch of the woman who had opened the door to them.
“That’s recognisable! Not at all bad.”
In these quiet ways he made it clear that, while he approved on the whole, he was not going to pay any extravagant price. He took an opportunity when Fleur was out of hearing, and said:
“So you want to paint my daughter. What’s your figure?”
“A hundred and fifty.”
“Rather tall for these days–you’re a young man. However–so long as you make a good thing of it!”
The Rafaelite bowed ironically.
“Yes,” said Soames, “I daresay; you think all your geese are swans–never met a painter who didn’t. You won’t keep her sitting long, I suppose–she’s busy. That’s agreed, then. Goodbye! Don’t come down!”
As they went out he said to Fleur:
“I’ve fixed that. You can begin sitting when you like. His work’s better than you’d think from the look of him. Forbidding chap, I call him.”
“A painter has to be forbidding, Dad; otherwise people would think he was cadging.”
“Something in that,” said Soames. “I’ll get back now, as you won’t let me take you home. Good-bye! Take care of yourself, and don’t overdo it.” And, receiving her kiss, he got into the car.
Fleur began to walk towards her eastward-bound ‘bus as his car moved west, nor did he see her stop, give him some law, then retrace her steps to June’s.
Chapter III.
POSSESSING THE SOUL
Just as in a very old world to find things or people of pure descent is impossible, so with actions; and the psychologist who traces them to single motives is like Soames, who believed that his daughter wanted to be painted in order that she might see herself hanging on a wall. Everybody, he knew, had themselves hung sooner or later, and generally sooner. Yet Fleur, though certainly not averse to being hung, had motives that were hardly so single as all that. In the service of this complexity, she went back to June’s. That little lady, who had been lurking in her bedroom so as not to meet her kinsman, was in high feather.
“Of course the price is nominal,” she said. “Harold ought really to be getting every bit as much for his portraits as Thom or Lippen. Still, it’s so important for him to be making something while he’s waiting to take his real place. What have you come back for?
“Partly for the pleasure of seeing you,” said Fleur, “and partly because we forgot to arrange for the first sitting. I think my best time would be three o’clock.”
“Yes,” murmured June, doubtfully, not so much from doubt as from not having suggested it herself. “I think Harold could manage that. Isn’t his work exquisite?”
“I particularly like the thing he’s done of Anne. It’s going down to them tomorrow, I hear.”
“Yes; Jon’s coming to fetch it.”
Fleur looked hastily into the little dim mirror to see that she was keeping expression off her face.
“What do you think I ought to wear?”
June’s gaze swept her from side to side.
“Oh! I expect he’ll want an artificial scheme with you.”
“Exactly! But what colour? One must come in something.”
“We’ll go up and ask him.”
The Rafaelite was standing before his picture of Anne. He turned and looked at them, without precisely saying: “Good Lord! These women!” and nodded, gloomily, at the suggestion of three o’clock.
“What do you want her in?” asked June.
The Rafaelite stared at Fleur as if determining where her ribs left off and her hip bones began.
“Gold and silver,” he said, at last.
June clasped her hands.
“Now, isn’t that extraordinary? He’s seen through you at once. Your gold and silver room. Harold, how DID you?”
“I happen to have an old ‘Folly’ dress,” said Fleur, “silver and gold, with bells, that I haven’t worn since I was married.”
“A ‘Folly’!” cried June. “The very thing. If it’s pretty. Some are hideous, of course.”
“Oh! it’s pretty, and makes a charming sound.”
“He can’t paint that,” said June. Then added dreamily: “But you could suggest it, Harold–like Leonardo.”
“Leonardo!”
“Oh! Of course! I know, he wasn’t–”
The Rafaelite interrupted.
“Don’t make your face up,” he said to Fleur.
“No,” murmured Fleur. “June, I do so like that of Anne. Has it struck you that she’s sure to want Jon painted now?”
“Of course, I’ll make him promise when he comes tomorrow.”
“He’s going to begin farming, you know; he’ll make that an excuse. Men hate being painted.”
“Oh, that’s all nonsense,” said June. “In old days they loved it. Anyway, Jon must sit before he begins. They’ll make a splendid pair.”
Behind the Rafaelite’s back Fleur bit her lip.
“He must wear a turn-down shirt. Blue, don’t you think, Harold–to go with his hair?”
“Pink, with green spots,” muttered the Rafaelite.
“Then three o’clock tomorrow?” said Fleur, hastily.
June nodded. “Jon’s coming to lunch, so he’ll be gone before you come.”
“All right, then. Au revoir!”
She held her hand out to the Rafaelite, who seemed surprised at the gesture.
“Good-bye, June!”
June came suddenly close and kissed her on the chin. At that moment the little lady’s face looked soft and pink, and her eyes soft; her lips were warm, too, as if she were warm all through.
Fleur went away thinking: ‘Ought I to have asked her not to tell Jon I was going to be painted?’ But surely June, the warm, the single-eyed, would never tell Jon anything that might stop him being useful to her Rafaelite. She stood, noting the geography around “the Poplars.” The only approach to this backwater was by a road that dipped into it and came out again. Just here, she would not be seen from the house, and could see Jon leaving after lunch whichever way he went. But then he would have to take a taxi, for the picture. It struck her bitterly that she, who had been his first-adored, should have to scheme to see him. But if she didn’t, she would never see him! Ah! what a ninny she had been at Wansdon in those old days when her room was next to his. One little act, and nothing could have kept him from her for all time, not his mother nor the old feud; not her father; nothing; and then there had been no vows of hers or his, no Michael, no Kit, no nymph-eyed girl in barrier between them; nothing but youth and innocence. And it seemed to her that youth and innocence were over-rated.
She lit on no plan by which she could see him without giving away the fact that she had schemed. She would have to possess her soul a little longer. Let him once get his head into the painter’s noose, and there would be not one but many chances.
She arrived at three o’clock with her Folly’s dress, and was taken into June’s bedroom to put it on.
“It’s just right,” said June; “delightfully artificial. Harold will love it.”
“I wonder,” said Fleur. The Rafaelite’s temperament had not yet struck her as very loving. They went up to the studio without having mentioned Jon.
The portrait of Anne was gone. And when June went to fetch “the exact thing” to cover a bit of background, Fleur said at once:
“Well? Are you going to paint my cousin Jon?”
The Rafaelite nodded.
“He didn’t want to be, but SHE made him.”
“When do you begin?”
“To-morrow,” said the Rafaelite. “He’s coming every morning for a week. What’s the good of a week?”
“If he’s only got a week I should have thought he’d better stay here.”
“He won’t without his wife, and his wife’s got a cold.”
“Oh!” said Fleur, and she thought rapidly. “Wouldn’t it be more convenient, then, for him to sit early in the afternoons? I could come in the mornings; in fact, I’d rather–one feels fresher. June could give him a trunk call.”
The Rafaelite uttered what she judged to be an approving sound. When she left, she said to June: “I want to come at ten every morning, then I get my afternoons free for my ‘Rest House’ down at Dorking. Couldn’t you get Jon to come in the afternoons instead? It would suit him better. Only don’t let him know I’m being painted–my picture won’t be recognisable for a week, anyway.”
“Oh!” said June, “you’re quite wrong, there. Harold always gets an unmistakable likeness at once; but of course he’ll put it face to the wall, he always does while he’s at work on a picture.”
“Good! He’s made quite a nice start. Then if you’ll telephone to Jon, I’ll come tomorrow at ten.” And for yet another day she possessed her soul. On the day after, she nodded at a canvas whose face was to the wall, and asked:
“Do you find my cousin a good sitter?”
“No,” said the Rafaelite; “he takes no interest. Got something on his mind, I should think.”
“He’s a poet, you know,” said Fleur.
The Rafaelite gave her an epileptic stare. “Poet! His head’s the wrong shape–too much jaw, and the eyes too deep in.”
“But his hair! Don’t you find him an attractive subject?”
“Attractive!” replied the Rafaelite–“I paint anything, whether it’s pretty or ugly as sin. Look at Rafael’s Pope–did you ever see a better portrait, or an uglier man?
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