“In the hall, Miss.”
“Ask him into the drawing-room; I’ll be there in a minute.”
Divested of her gardening gloves and basket, she looked at her nose in her little powdery mirror; then, entering the drawing-room through the French window, saw with surprise the ‘young man’ sitting up good in a chair with some apparatus by his side. He had thick white hair, and an eyeglass on a black ribbon; and when he stood she realised that he must be at least sixty. He said:
“Miss Cherrell? Your Uncle, Sir Lawrence Mont, has commissioned me to do a miniature of you.”
“I know,” said Dinny; “only I thought—” She did not finish. After all, Uncle Lawrence liked his little joke, or possibly this was his idea of youth.
The ‘young man’ had screwed his monocle into a comely red cheek, and through it a full blue eye scrutinized her eagerly. He put his head on one side and said: “If we can get the outline, and you have some photographs, I shan’t give you much trouble. What you have on—that flax-blue—is admirable for colour; background of sky—through that window—yes, not too blue—an English white in it. While the light’s good, can we—?” And, talking all the time, he proceeded to make his preparations.
“Sir Lawrence’s idea,” he said, “is the English lady; culture deep but not apparent. Turn a little sideways. Thank you—the nose—”
“Yes,” said Dinny; “hopeless.”
“Oh! no, no! Charming. Sir Lawrence, I understand, wants you for his collection of types. I’ve done two for him. Would you look down? No! Now full at me! Ah! The teeth—admirable!”
“All mine, so far.”
“That smile is just right, Miss Cherrelclass="underline" it gives us the sense of spoof we want; not too much spoof, but just spoof enough.”
“You don’t want me to hold a smile with exactly three ounces of spoof in it?”
“No, no, my dear young lady; we shall chance on it. Now suppose you turn three-quarters. Ah! Now I get the line of the hair; the colour of it admirable.”
“Not too much ginger, but just ginger enough?”
The ‘young man’ was silent. He had begun with singular concentration to draw and to write little notes on the margin of the paper.
Dinny, with crinkled eyebrows, did not like to move. He paused and smiled at her with a sort of winey sweetness.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he said. “I see, I see.”
What did he see? The nervousness of the victim seized her suddenly, and she pressed her open hands together.
“Raise the hands, Miss Cherrell. No! Too Madonnaish. We must think of the devil in the hair. The eyes to me, full.”
“Glad?” asked Dinny.
“Not too glad; just—Yes, an English eye; candid but reserved. Now the turn of the neck. Ah! A leetle tilt. Ye—es. Almost stag-like; almost—a touch of the—not startled—no, of the aloof.”
He again began to draw and write with a sort of remoteness, as if he were a long way off.
And Dinny thought: ‘If Uncle Lawrence wants self-consciousness he’ll get it all right.’
The ‘young man’ stopped and stood back, his head very much on one side, so that all his attention seemed to come out of his eyeglass.
“The expression,” he muttered.
“I expect,” said Dinny, “you want an unemployed look.”
“Naughty!” said the ‘young man’: “Deeper. Could I play that piano for a minute?”
“Of course. But I’m afraid it’s not been played on lately.”
“It will serve.” He sat down, opened the piano, blew on the keys, and began playing. He played strongly, softly, well. Dinny stood in the curve of the piano, listening, and speedily entranced. It was obviously Bach, but she did not know what. An endearing, cool, and lovely tune, coming over and over and over, monotonous, yet moving as only Bach could be.
“What is it?”
“A Chorale of Bach, set by a pianist.” And the ‘young man’ nodded his eyeglass towards the keys.
“Glorious! Your ears on heaven and your feet in flowery fields,” murmured Dinny.
The ‘young man’ closed the piano and stood up.
“That’s what I want, that’s what I want, young lady!”
“Oh!” said Dinny. “Is that all?”