Part 20 (1/2)
I sought for something to say which might have a chance of impressing her--a desperate task on the face of it--and I mentioned that Miss Ward was her hostess.
One might as well have tried to impress Amedee. She ”made a little mouth” and went on dabbling with her brushes. ”Hostess? Pooh!” she said cheerfully. ”My INFANTILE father sent me here to be in her charge while he ran home to America. Mr. Ward's to paint my portrait, when he comes.
Give and take--it's simple enough, you see!”
Here was frankness with a vengeance, and I fell back upon silence, whereupon a pause ensued, to my share of which I imparted the deepest shadow of disapproval within my power. Unfortunately, she did not look at me; my effort pa.s.sed with no other effect than to make some of my facial muscles ache.
”'Portrait of Miss E., by George Ward, H. C.,'” this painfully plain-speaking young lady continued presently. ”On the line at next spring's Salon, then packed up for the dear ones at home. I'd as soon own an 'Art Bronze,' myself--or a nice, clean porcelain Arab.”
”No doubt you've forgotten for the moment,” I said, ”that Mr. Ward is my friend.”
”Not in painting, he isn't,” she returned quickly,
”I consider his work altogether creditable; it's carefully done, conscientious, effective--”
”Isn't that true of the ladies in the hairdressers' windows?” she asked with a.s.sumed artlessness. ”Can't you say a kind word for them, good gentleman, and heaven bless you?”
”Why sha'n't I be asked to Quesnay again?”
She laughed. ”You haven't seemed FANATICALLY appreciative of your opportunities when you have been there; you might have carried her off from Cresson Ingle instead of vice versa. But after all, you AREN'T”--here she paused and looked at me appraisingly for a moment-”you AREN'T the most piratical dash-in-and-dash-out and leave-everything-upside-down-behind-you sort of man, are you?”
”No, I believe I'm not.”
”However, that's only a SMALL half of the reason,” Miss Elliott went on. ”She's furious on account of this.”
These were vague words, and I said so.
”Oh, THIS,” she explained, ”my being here; your letting me come.
Impropriety--all of that!” A sharp whistle issued from her lips. ”Oh!
the EXCORIATING things she's said of my pursuing you!”
”But doesn't she know that it's only part of your siege of Madame Brossard's; that it's a subterfuge in the hope of catching a glimpse of Oliver Saffren?”
”No!” she cried, her eyes dancing; ”I told her that, but she thinks it's only a subterfuge in the hope of catching more than a glimpse of you!”
I joined laughter with her then. She was the first to stop, and, looking at me somewhat doubtfully, she said:
”Whereas, the truth is that it's neither. You know very well that I want to paint.”
”Certainly,” I agreed at once. ”Your devotion to 'your art' and your hope of spending half an hour at Madame Brossard's now and then are separable;--which reminds me: Wouldn't you like me to look at your sketch?”
”No, not yet.” She jumped up and brought her camp-stool over to mine.
”I feel that I could better bear what you'll say of it after I've had some lunch. Not a SYLLABLE of food has crossed my lips since coffee at dawn!”
I spread before her what Amedee had prepared; not sandwiches for the pocket to-day, but a wicker hamper, one end of which we let rest upon her knees, the other upon mine, and at sight of the foie gras, the delicate, devilled partridge, the truffled salad, the fine yellow cheese, and the long bottle of good red Beaune, revealed when the cover was off, I could almost have forgiven the old rascal for his scandal-mongering. As for my vis-a-vis, she p.r.o.nounced it a ”maddening sight.”
”Fall to, my merry man,” she added, ”and eat your fill of this fair pasty, under the greenwood tree.” Obeying her instructions with right good-will, and the lady likewise evincing no hatred of the viands, we made a cheerful meal of it, topping it with peaches and bunches of grapes.
”It is unfair to let you do all the catering,” said Miss Elliott, after carefully selecting the largest and best peach.