Part 54 (1/2)

Paul, who had never met Lord Ernest, but had once seen his name in a ha'penny paper beneath a photograph of Mr. Arnold Bennett, bowed silently.

”As you probably guess, I want you to paint my daughter's portrait.”

Paul opened his mouth to say that he was only a landscape painter, and then closed it again. After all, it was hardly fair to bother her Grace with technicalities.

”I hope you can undertake this commission,” she said pleadingly.

”I shall be delighted,” said Paul. ”I am rather busy just now, but I could begin at two o'clock on Monday.”

”Excellent,” said the d.u.c.h.ess. ”Till Monday, then.” And Paul, still clutching the tooth paste, conducted her to her carriage.

Punctually at 3.15 on Monday Lady Hermione appeared. Paul drew a deep breath of astonishment when he saw her, for she was lovely beyond compare. All his skill as a landscape painter would be needed if he were to do justice to her beauty. As quickly as possible he placed her in position and set to work....

”May I let my face go for a moment?” said Lady Hermione after three hours of it.

”Yes, let us stop,” said Paul. He had outlined her in charcoal and burnt cork, and it would be too dark to do any more that evening.

”Tell me where you first met Lord Ernest?” she asked, as she came down to the fire.

”At the Savoy in June,” said Paul boldly.

Lady Hermione laughed merrily. Paul, who had not regarded his last remark as one of his best things, looked at her in surprise.

”But your portrait of him was in the Academy in May!” she smiled.

Paul made up his mind quickly.

”Lady Hermione,” he said with gravity, ”do not speak to me of Lord Ernest again. Nor,” he added hurriedly, ”to Lord Ernest of me. When your picture is finished I will tell you why. Now it is time you went.” He woke the d.u.c.h.ess up, and made a few commonplace remarks about the weather. ”Remember,” he whispered to Lady Hermione as he saw them to their car. She nodded and smiled.

The sittings went on daily. Sometimes Paul would paint rapidly with great sweeps of the brush; sometimes he would spend an hour trying to get on his palette the exact shade of green bice for the famous Winchester emeralds; sometimes in despair he would take a sponge and wipe the whole picture out, and then start madly again. And sometimes he would stop work altogether and tell Lady Hermione about his home-life in Worcesters.h.i.+re. But always, when he woke the d.u.c.h.ess up at the end of the sitting, he would say ”Remember!” and Lady Hermione would nod back at him.

It was a spring-like day in March when the picture was finished, and nothing remained to do but to paint in the signature.

”It is beautiful!” said Lady Hermione, with enthusiasm. ”Beautiful! Is it at all like me?”

Paul looked from her to the picture, and back to her again.

”No,” he said. ”Not a bit. You know, I am really a landscape painter.”

”What do you mean?” she cried. ”You are Peter Samways, A.R.A., the famous portrait painter!”

”No,” he said sadly. ”That was my secret. I am Paul Samways. A member of the Amateur Rowing a.s.sociation, it is true, but only an unknown landscape painter. Peter Samways lives in the next studio, and he is not even a relation.”

”Then you have deceived me! You have brought me here under false pretences!” She stamped her foot angrily. ”My father will not buy that picture, and I forbid you to exhibit it as a portrait of myself.”

”My dear Lady Hermione,” said Paul, ”you need not be alarmed. I propose to exhibit the picture as 'When the Heart is Young.' n.o.body will recognise a likeness to you in it. And if the Duke does not buy it I have no doubt that some other purchaser will come along.”

Lady Hermione looked at him thoughtfully. ”Why did you do it?” she asked gently.