Reflected Glory. John Russell Fearn

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СКАЧАТЬ to noon—then Clive suddenly “downed tools” and insisted on taking her out to lunch. It was a suggestion that seemed to give Barbara some cause for thought, though she did not make any comment.

      “I know an ideal place—the Artists’ Club—only a few streets away,” Clive insisted. “Surely you can’t refuse? Then I’ll see you safely back to your hotel.”

      Elsa did not refuse: she accepted the invitation quite willingly, though she could not help but notice the queer light in Barbara’s blue eyes. It was an impression that remained with her so strongly she mentioned it over lunch.

      “Oh, you don’t have to worry about Babs,” Clive smiled. “She isn’t jealous, if that’s what you mean. Matter of fact, she’s no need to be. She’s friendly with a young actor—Terry Draycott. You’ll probably meet him soon. Come to think of it,” he reflected, “This makes a triumvirate of the arts, doesn’t it? Artist, actor, and writer.”

      “Is he a well-known actor?” Elsa asked.

      “Well, he’s a pretty celebrated supporting player, though he isn’t in the star class as yet. Just working his way up. At the moment he has the villain’s part in that new murder thriller at the Adelphi—‘Robert Had Two Knives.’”

      Elsa nodded. She had seen the play advertised, but that was all.

      “It isn’t very long since we met,” Clive resumed presently. “No more than twenty-four hours, yet we seem to be hitting it off all right, don’t we?”

      “Well, I suppose a certain amount of co-operation is essential between artist and model,” Elsa replied evasively. “Just the same I do think, Mr. Hexley, that—”

      “I wish you’d call me Clive.”

      “Perhaps I will—later on. As I was saying, it’s imperative that I leave London within the next few days. I have my own work to do, you know. You can finish that portrait of me in that time, surely?”

      “It’s debatable,” Hexley mused. “I’ve hardly done anything yet—only sketched in the rough outlines. I may as well be frank and tell you that you are a disturbing influence. I can’t concentrate on the painting because I’m concentrating on you. That never happens when I have Babs as a model. She registers blank negative on my emotions.... Anybody ever tell you that you have aura—a queer sort of personal magnetism?”

      “No. I don’t believe I have, either. I’m one of the most retiring people imaginable.”

      “Yet you write what Babs calls ‘horrific’ stuff. And she’s a hard nut, believe me. Isn’t frightened of anything as a rule. I think I’ll grab myself a Hardy Strong novel and see what all the fuss is about.”

      “I can’t stop you doing that, of course,” Elsa said, “but I’d much rather you didn’t. You might get the wrong impression. I haven’t really got a criminal mind, honestly.”

      “I never thought for a moment that you had,” he said, looking at her in some wonder.

      “I know, but after reading my work you might think otherwise. And I wouldn’t like that—not now we’ve become friends.”

      Clive smiled and almost unconsciously patted her hand as it lay on the table.

      “All right, it’s a promise. I won’t look at your stuff. Not that I want to. I’d much sooner preserve the memory of the charm­ing girl you are.... Tell me, whereabouts in Surrey do you live? You said Midhampton, didn’t you?”

      “Yes, but Midhampton’s only a village, too small for mention on any map. I live in a small detached house called Tudor Cottage about a mile away from the village itself. I was born there, raised there, and when my parents died recently, within two months of each other, the place automatically became mine.” Elsa mused for a moment or two and then added slowly. “They didn’t leave me any money. What I have I’ve earned from my writing. But they did leave me something much more valuable than cash—freedom, and the opportunity to be somebody.”

      “You mean they tried to prevent that when they were alive?” Clive asked interestedly.

      Elsa nodded but she did not elaborate on the subject.

      “The people in Midhampton have got to thinking of me as a kind of recluse—chiefly because I stay at home such a lot to do my writing and don’t mix in the affairs of the village. Only on rare occasions do I visit London on business. And this time it seems to have developed into something more than just business, doesn’t it? I’ve been given a chance to become famous through having my portrait in the Academy.”

      “Well, there is that possibility,” Clive admitted, “but don’t put too much store on it. Critics are tough to please, sometimes. If my picture doesn’t rate as high as it should, nobody will care tuppence who the subject is.... All in the luck of the game.”

      “You must make it a masterpiece!” Elsa insisted, with an unusual earnestness. “Promise me that you will? I so want to be known and talked about— And yet I also want to stay in the back­ground and listen to the comments flying back and forth. I—I get a sort of sense of omnipotence that way.”

      “Which is pretty much what you said yesterday, and I still don’t get the angle.” Clive gave a shrug. “However, I’ll put my best into the job; be sure of that. But promise me that you’ll give me time to do the thing properly. One can hardly rush a masterpiece,” he added dryly.

      Nor did he. In three more days, during which Elsa sat for him on three mornings and had three lunches, he still only had the rudiments of the painting in being. But the fact did not seem to worry him. To even be with her seemed to satisfy him—and though she would not admit it she found herself, when away from him, thinking almost constantly of his dark hair, amused blue eyes, and the clean-cut line of his jaw.

      On the fourth morning Barbara Vane had a few comments to make, and she made them in the forthright fashion that Elsa had come to know was characteristic of her.

      “I begin to think that I’ve stopped around here long enough!” she declared.

      The remark, coming into the midst of silence whilst Clive was painting, made him cease work and gaze at her in astonishment. Elsa too turned her head and noticed that Barbara was in her hat and coat instead of her normal smock.

      “Since when did you become a stooge?” Clive asked, trying to and sound patient.

      “Apparently since Miss Farraday came! If you think I enjoy playing around here as a sort of chaperone—a job one usually associates with a middle-aged dowager—you’re vastly mistaken! I’m sick of it, Clive! If you’re so keen on ethics you’d better find a new way to make them operate. I’ve had enough.”

      “But, Babs, this is absurd!” Clive protested. “You’ve always hung around here when it’s been necessary for me to have a girl as a model—”

      “And I’ve always disliked it!” Barbara snapped. “Hang it all, the position’s ridiculous! Isn’t it unethical enough that I’m here alone for days on end, acting as your model—”

      “Of course it isn’t! You’re a professional model. That’s no more unethical than a doctor and his patient— And all that apart, we’re good friends who understand each other. I just can’t think why you want to let me down.”

      Barbara СКАЧАТЬ