“There’s rather a lot of chiaroscuro, isn’t there?” she ventured at last, and inwardly congratulated herself on having found a critical formula so gentle and at the same time so penetrating.
“There is,” Gombauld agreed.
Mary was pleased; he accepted her criticism; it was a serious discussion. She put her head on one side and screwed up her eyes. “I think it’s awfully fine,” she said. “But of course it’s a little too...too...trompe-l’oeil for my taste.” She looked at Gombauld, who made no response, but continued to smoke, gazing meditatively all the time at his picture. Mary went on gaspingly. “When I was in Paris this spring I saw a lot of Tschuplitski. I admire his work so tremendously. Of course, it’s frightfully abstract now—frightfully abstract and frightfully intellectual. He just throws a few oblongs on to his canvas—quite flat, you know, and painted in pure primary colours. But his design is wonderful. He’s getting more and more abstract every day. He’d given up the third dimension when I was there and was just thinking of giving up the second. Soon, he says, there’ll be just the blank canvas. That’s the logical conclusion. Complete abstraction. Painting’s finished; he’s finishing it. When he’s reached pure abstraction he’s going to take up architecture. He says it’s more intellectual than painting. Do you agree?” she asked, with a final gasp.
Gombauld dropped his cigarette end and trod on it. “Tschuplitski’s finished painting,” he said. “I’ve finished my cigarette. But I’m going on painting.” And, advancing towards her, he put his arm round her shoulders and turned her round, away from the picture.
Mary looked up at him; her hair swung back, a soundless bell of gold. Her eyes were serene; she smiled. So the moment had come. His arm was round her. He moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, and she moved with him. It was a peripatetic embracement. “Do you agree with him?” she repeated. The moment might have come, but she would not cease to be intellectual, serious.
“I don’t know. I shall have to think about it.” Gombauld loosened his embrace, his hand dropped from her shoulder. “Be careful going down the ladder,” he added solicitously.
Mary looked round, startled. They were in front of the open door. She remained standing there for a moment in bewilderment. The hand that had rested on her shoulder made itself felt lower down her back; it administered three or four kindly little smacks. Replying automatically to its stimulus, she moved forward.
“Be careful going down the ladder,” said Gombauld once more.
She was careful. The door closed behind her and she was alone in the little green close. She walked slowly back through the farmyard; she was pensive.