The Lamp of Fate Part 42

"Very long," agreed Quarrington politely. "It would probably have been still longer if Lady Arabella had not tempted me. But her portrait was too interesting a commission to refuse."

"It sounds ba.n.a.l to say how good I think it. You never paint anything that _isn't_ good, do you?"

"I paint what I see."

"In that case quite a lot of people might be afraid to have their portraits painted by you--beauty being so much in the eye of the beholder!" returned Magda with the flippancy that is so often only the defence behind which a woman takes refuge.

"I don't think so. As a matter of fact I have no objection to painting a plain face--provided there's a beautiful soul behind it."

"But I suppose a beautiful soul in a beautiful body would satisfy you better?"

"It might, if such a combination existed."

Magda flushed a little.

"You don't think it does?"

The grey, contemptuous eyes swept her face suddenly.

"My experience has not led me to think so."

There was an almost calculated insolence in the careless answer. It was as though he had tossed her an epitome of his opinion of her. Magda's spirit rose in opposition.

"Perhaps your experience has been somewhat limited," she observed.

"Perhaps it has. If so, I have no wish to extend it."

In spite of Michael's taciturnity--or perhaps, more truly, on account of it--Magda's spirits lightened curiously after that first interview with him. The mere fact of his presence had stilled the incessant ache at her heart--the ache to see him again and hear his voice. And the morose cynicism of his thrusts at her was just so much proof that, although he had forced himself to remain out of England for a year and a half, yet he had not thereby achieved either peace of mind or indifference. Magda was too true a daughter of Eve not to know that a man doesn't expend powder and shot on a woman to whom he is completely indifferent.

The next day or two were not without their difficulties, as Lady Arabella speedily realised. A triangular party, when two out of the three share certain poignant memories, is by no means the easiest thing to stage-manage. There were inevitable awkward moments that could only be surmounted by the exercise of considerable tact, and the hours which Lady Arabella pa.s.sed sitting to Quarrington for her portrait, while Magda wandered alone through the woods or sculled a solitary boat up the river, helped to minimize the strain considerably.

Nevertheless, it was a relief to everyone concerned when Gillian and Coppertop were added to the party. A strained atmosphere was somewhat difficult of accomplishment anywhere within the joyous vicinity of the latter, while Gillian's tranquil and happy nature reacted on the whole household.

"That's an extraordinary friends.h.i.+p," commented Quarrington one day as he and his hostess stood at the window watching Gillian and Magda, returned from shopping in the village, approaching up the drive.

"Mrs. Grey is so simple and--to use an overworked word--so essentially womanly."

"And Magda?"

The hard look deepened in Michael's eyes.

"Essentially--feminine," he answered curtly. "A quite different thing."

"She hasn't found her soul yet," said Lady Arabella. Adding with sudden daring: "Suppose you find it for her, Michael?"

"I don't think the search would interest me," he returned coolly. "I haven't the instinct of the prospector." He paused, then went on slowly and as though making the admission almost against his will: "But I'd like to paint her."

"A portrait of her?"

"No, not a portrait."

"Then you mean you want her to sit for your 'Circe'?"

Lady Arabella knew all about the important picture he had in mind to paint. They had often discussed it together during the progress of the sittings she had been giving him, and she was aware that so far he had been unable to find a suitable model.

"Yes," he said slowly. "She is the perfect model for such a subject--body and soul."

Lady Arabella ignored the sneer.

"Then why not ask her to sit for you?"

Quarrington's brows drew together.

"You know the answer to that, I think, Lady Arabella," he answered curtly.

"Oh, you men! I've no patience with you!" exclaimed the old lady testily. "_I_ shall ask her, then!"

Gillian and Magda, laden with parcels, entered the room as she spoke, and, before Quarrington could prevent her, she had flashed round on her G.o.d-daughter.

"Magda, here's Michael in need of a model for the best picture he's ever likely to paint, and it seems you exactly fit the bill. Will you sit for him?"

Followed an astonished silence. Gillian glanced apprehensively towards Magda. She felt as though Lady Arabella had suddenly let off a firework in their midst. Magda halted in the process of unwrapping a small parcel.

"What is the subject of the picture?"

There was a perceptible pause. Then Lady Arabella took the bull by the horns.

"Circe," she said tersely.

"Oh!" Magda seemed to reflect. "She turned men into swine, didn't she?"

She looked across at Quarrington. "And I'm to understand you think I'd make a suitable model for that particular subject?"

"She was a very beautiful person," suggested Gillian hastily.

"Mr. Quarrington hasn't answered my question," persisted Magda.

He met her glance with cool defiance.

"Then, yes," he returned with a little bow. "As Mrs. Grey has just remarked--Circle was very beautiful."

"You score," observed Magda demurely. There was a glint of amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes.

"Yes, I think he does," agreed Lady Arabella, who was deriving an impish, pixie-like enjoyment from the situation. Then, recognising that it might be more diplomatic not to press the matter any further at the moment, she skilfully drew the conversation into other channels.

It was not until evening, after dinner, that she reverted to the subject. They had all four been partaking of coffee and cigarettes on the verandah, and subsequently she had proposed a stroll in the garden--a suggestion to which Gillian responded with alacrity. Magda, her slim length extended on a comfortably cus.h.i.+oned wicker lunge, shook her head.

"I'm too comfortable to stir," she declared idly.

Lady Arabella paused at the edge of the verandah and contemplated her critically. Something in the girl's pose and in the long, lithe lines of her rec.u.mbent figure was responsible for her next remark.