“The rooms are carefully proportioned,” she said, pleasantly, but with a touch of pride in the fact. “The architect who designed them knew just what measurements were most effective from a technical and artistic point of view.”
“The rooms are all right,” said Mr. Ford, smiling kindly at the speaker, “the trouble is with my own foolish vagaries.”
Then led by Barry, they all went into the studio.
Alan Ford looked around him, with the most intense admiration expressed on his fine face.
“Magnificent!” he said. “Mrs. Faulkner, your late husband was indeed a genius. I have never seen a more perfectly proportioned room, or one more appropriately and effectively decorated. The windows are marvels and the furniture is in every respect fitting.”
“Oh,” said Joyce, “Mr. Stannard furnished the room. It was not built for a studio.”
“It is, then, the joint product of two geniuses. I know of Mr. Stannard’s reputation.”
For a few moments Alan Ford seem to forget the errand on which he had come. He was, it was plain to be seen, deeply impressed with the beautiful apartment, and his dark, deep-set grey eyes roved about from pictures to statues, from furniture to decorations with admiring and approving gaze.
“Have you a picture of Mr. Stannard?” he said at last.
“Yes,” and Joyce took a photograph from a small chest full of portraits. “This is a photograph of a painting done by himself. It was made about four years ago, but he changed little since.”