"I am ashamed that I was not here to receive you, Mrs. Samphire. But I know you'd sooner talk to Mark than me. I'm painting her, Mark. You shall give us your opinion. I've not seen you for a coon's age. What? Nonsense, my dear fellow. I can paint just as well while you're here. You must stay as long as you possibly can. Mustn't he, Mrs. Samphire?"
"Of course," said Betty in her ordinary voice. Pynsent dragged a canvas across the studio and placed it on the easel.
"There," said he, "what do you think of that?"
Mark approached the easel, as Betty turned to remove her hat and jacket. The portrait, almost completed, was three-quarters length: a daring study in what at first glance seemed to be black-and-white. As a matter of fact, black, as pigment, was not used at all. The effect of it was produced by the admixture and contrast of colour. Looking into the translucent shadows the eye detected brilliant tints.
"It's one of the best things I've done," said Pynsent. "It's kept me awake nights, this portrait. I got that shadow under the chin by a trick I learnt in Florence. You lay three colours one on top of the other. It's great. The fellow who discovered it can't draw; he'd be a wonder if he could——"
Pynsent went on talking, unaware of what was passing in the minds of his friends. Betty sat down on the model's dais, and Pynsent arranged her hands, still talking volubly of light and colour effects. Mark remained staring at the picture. "You haven't said what you think of it," concluded Pynsent, as he picked up his palette.
"For whom are you painting it?"
"It's an open secret, isn't it?" said the painter, glancing sideways at his model. "The grateful Vauxhall wishes to give it to your brother. But I had difficulty in persuading Madame to sit."
"Vauxhall," repeated Mark stupidly.
"Archie, they say, has put thousands into his pocket. He boomed the price of all bricks and mortar within a mile radius of the Basilica. Well—your opinion, my dear fellow."