Now it must be confessed that if Mrs. Cloud and Laura shared a prejudice against that rising young artist, Oliver Weathersby Seton, the fault was as little theirs as his. Mrs. Cloud could have forgiven the inconsequence of his manner (she was not to know that he was ‘Weathercock Seton’ to his intimates), and Laura would have admitted that her memory of a long boy who laughed at her and talked with his hands was pleasant enough, if Justin, in the openness of his heart, had not held forth quite so energetically upon his temperamental friend. Oliver was so brilliant, so impulsive, so affectionate, the quaintest of companions, the jolliest of merry-andrews! Justin could not help admiring a character so different from his own in pace if not in quality: and the more he dwelt upon it, the more deeply interested in his own admiration he grew, until he worked himself up in the course of the morning from a moderate sense of friendship to a state of enthusiasm as gratifying to himself—for his temperate nature enjoyed a rousing—as it was depressing to his womenfolk. There is no doubt that excessive praise of other people is hard to bear.
There was time enough, however, while they lost themselves and each other in the honeycomb of the Uffizi, and met again unexpectedly as they hunted down Oliver, for Laura to be firm with herself, to scout this ridiculous notion of sticking up her chin at him. Mrs. Cloud was right.... Of course she must make herself perfectly charming to Justin’s friend ... because, though she was certain to disapprove of him, it was absolutely necessary that he should approve of her.... Suppose he didn’t like her ... said sneery things about her to Justin!... Justin was so easily influenced.... Was he? She pulled herself up short. Was he? She had never thought of that before. Yet here she was taking it for granted!... And it was perfectly true.... He was as hard as nails ... you could not persuade him to anything face to face ... but you could drop a notion into his ear, and in a week it would leaven the lump of him.... She knew it. She had always known it. She wondered how she knew?
She trailed out of that room (she had lost the Clouds again) to find herself in a long remote corridor that she had not seen before. In a corner to her right a man stood and painted.
Was this Oliver? She could not see his face, but she thought it probable. He was young, and though his clothes were Latin Quarter French, he wore them like an Englishman, an Englishman pretending that he was not in fancy dress.
She drew nearer. She was herself too hardened to an audience to be chary of watching him, but she was amused and faintly contemptuous when she saw how instantly he was embarrassed. He had been absorbed in his work, his good work, as she critically admitted. Justin was right—the man could paint. She had never seen a better copy, unless, indeed, it had too vigorous a life of its own. She sympathized. This was no commission. She guessed him a penitent, at her own trick of subduing the artistic flesh. She observed that he had pet brushes. If this were Oliver, she might like him after all....
And then, as I told you, he became aware of her, and began, like any child, to show off. He did not turn: he remained elaborately unconscious; but he intensified himself. She could not help laughing. The breathless pause, the poised brush, the accurate dab, the hasty retreat and long absorbed stare, the frantic rattle through his paint-box for the unnecessary tube, it was all familiar comedy: she had played it herself in her first nervous week at the Louvre. But he, at twenty-five—if he were Oliver he must be quite twenty-five—could not possibly be nervous any more.... It was pose, pure pose, very funny to watch.... So that was Oliver! She shrugged her shoulders and strolled on.
She would, perhaps, have had her expressive mouth more under control had she realized that a dark canvas and a sheet of glass are an excellent substitute for a mirror.
She glanced at her watch. She and Justin had their established rendezvous, but it was early yet. If this were Oliver, Justin and his mother would find him sooner or later.... It would have saved time if Oliver had had the sense to say what he was copying.... Justin, with an indulgent smile, had said that the omission was just like Oliver—“Head in the clouds as usual. You know what these geniuses are.” Genius!... What would Justin have said if any one else had sent them trapesing up and down these endless rooms? She, Laura, did not mind for herself, of course, but poor Mrs. Cloud would be done up.... Even she was not sorry to rest for a moment....
She sat down thankfully on a student’s deserted stool. It was a warm, lax day and she was, in truth, a little dazed and overborne by the bright colours and echoing rooms and the familiar, indescribable odour that is the breath of painted pictures, crowded hundreds of pictures, hundreds of years old. She had only to shut her eyes to be in Paris ... in her painting apron....
She shut them.