The Brother of Daphne Part 34

"My dear, you've been misled. Yes. That over there is a chair. It cost three and ninepence in the King's Road. Local colour, you know.

He's putting it in his new picture, 'Luxury'."

Still smiling, she took her seat. Then:

"He said you were awful," she said.

Till a fortnight ago, I had not seen George Larel for quite five years.

Not since we had been at Oxford together. When he went down, he left England, to study, I understood. He always drew rather well. Then one spring morning I struck him in Piccadilly, by the railings of the Green Park. He was standing still, a large, blue air-ball in his hand, steadfastly regarding the Porters' Rest. Our greeting was characteristic.

"Well, George," said I. He looked round.

"Hullo, old chap." He pointed to the Rest. "Rather nice, that. Pity there aren't more. Why didn't they keep the Pike at Hyde Park Corner?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I begged them to," said I. "But you know what they are."

George looked at me critically. Then:

"That's a good hat," he said. "I'd like to paint you just as you are."

He stepped back and half closed his eyes. "Yes, that'll do. When can you come? I always said I would, you know," he added.

"You're very good, George. Come to the club and--"

He shook his head. "We'll talk, when you come. I've got to go to Richmond now." He pointed to the air-ball. "There was a child there yesterday, playing in the Park, with eyes--I've only seen their like once before. That was in Oporto." He sighed. "Will you come to-morrow at eleven? Cheyne Row. I forget the number, but it's got a green door."

"I'd love to."

He hailed a taxi.

"That's right, then." He turned to the driver. "Go to Richmond," he said, opening the door.

As it moved, he put his head out of the window.

"Mind you wear that hat, old boy."

The next morning I had my first sitting. It was a great success.

There was much to say, and we talked furiously for three hours. And all the time I sat still upon the throne, and George painted. About his work he said little, but I gathered that he had begun to do well.

He mentioned that he had had two or three commissions.

"I'm on that now," he said carelessly, during one of my rests. He was pointing to a canvas, which leaned--face inwards--against the wall. I walked across the studio, and turned it round. A girl's picture. A girl in a flowered dress and a shady hat, her slight s.h.i.+ning legs crossed at the knee. Sitting square in the high-backed chair, he was painting her, one small hand on each of its rosewood arms. The face was most of all unfinished.

"You've got those legs well," said I, "And I like the dress. She looks rather lovely, as far as one can tell without seeing the face."

George laughed.

"She's all right," he said.

At the end of my second sitting George picked up a knife and began deliberately to sc.r.a.pe out all the work he had done that morning. I watched him, petrified with horror.

"Sorry, old chap," he said, smiling.

"Stop," I cried. "I like that curve of the nostril. It denotes the force of character which has made me what I am."

George went on ruthlessly.

"I want it to be good of you," he said simply. Half way through my third sitting George gave a cry and flung off his coat.

"What's the matter?" said I. "Something biting--?

"Talk, man," he said, seizing his palette. "Just talk. Don't mind how I answer. I'm going to paint. By Jove, how I'm going to paint!"

Clearly the fit was upon him. These artists! Not daring to disobey, I talked and talked. Heaven knows what I said. After an hour my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth, but I talked on. And all the time George alternately bent his brews upon me, and hung himself at the canvas, uttering strange, smothered cries and oaths, but painting, painting.... At a quarter past two he laid down his palette and cried to me to descend. Stiffly I did so.

For a long moment I looked at the portrait. Then I turned to George and clapped him on the back.

"I think you're going to make a name," said I.

"That's right," he said. "And now give me a cigarette."

Before we went to lunch, he showed me the picture of the girl. It was almost finished. Such a fine, brave face. Not a bit pretty--just beautiful. Dark hair showing under the brim of the hat, steady brown eyes, the mouth exquisite...

That was three days ago. And now--pleasedly I regarded the original.

"May I offer you a cigarette?" I said.

When I had lighted it for her:

"To-day is Thursday, isn't it?" she said.

"That's just what I was going to say."

"Yes, I'm sure it is, because last night brother left--"

"The light on in the kitchen garden, with the result that this morning all the c.o.c.ks were two hours fast. I know. But of course it is.

Hasn't Thursday always been my lucky day?"

She blew out a little cloud of smoke and smiled at it. Then:

"I don't know you at all, you know," she said gravely, "and Aunt Prudence always used to say--"

"I know. 'Beware of pickpockets. No smoking.' They quote her in the lifts on the Tube. But then I'm not a pickpocket, and you are smoking.

Besides, your picture knows mine very well. They've seen quite a lot of each other lately.

"Yes, but--"

"And then you know my picture a little, and I know yours by heart."

"You're quick to learn."

"Perhaps. But I do. I know every eyelash, long as they are. I believe I could say them. But then I was always good at poetry." This with a bow.