“My husband was a great artist,” Joyce began, as if thinking it out for herself. “He was accustomed to having his models do as he requested. Miss Vernon was not always amenable to his wishes and—and they were not very good friends.”
“But you and Miss Vernon are good friends? You like her?”
Joyce favoured Natalie with a calm stare. “Certainly,” she said, in an even voice, “I like her.”
“Whew!” breathed our friend Roberts, silently. “At last I see what one Mr. Pope meant when he wrote:
“Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And, without sneering, cause the rest to sneer.”
For, surely, Joyce’s attestation of friendship between herself and the artist’s model convinced nobody. She sat, gracefully erect, her serious face blank of any emotion, yet impressing all with the sense of profound feeling beneath.
“In what ways did Miss Vernon incur Mr. Stannard’s displeasure?” asked Lamson.
“Merely on some technical matters connected with her posing for his pictures,” was the nonchalant reply.
“That, then, could scarcely be construed into a motive for murder?”