Ting-a-ting—ting-a-ting—ting—ting—ting—
The person had rung again, more ferociously. Ah, it must be that interminable Mrs. Filbert back again. Well, let her ring on, the old jade. Rather an hour of tintinnabulation than ten minutes of her tongue. Had his man been in, he might himself have been “out,” but he could scarcely appear at the door and deny himself. Her shrill falsetto voice resurged in the ear of memory, offering nude photos from Paris at exorbitant prices, or lists of models full of inaccurate addresses, or rare costumes, most of which could be picked up at any old clo’ shop. He smiled, recalling one of these costumes—something like a fishing-net with holes about an inch across. “This is Greek, and shows the figure.” Certainly it showed the figure, he thought, smiling more broadly. And now he remembered—she had threatened to bring her younger sister. “And I have also a little sister. I don’t know if you paint pretty girls,” here his memory inserted a giggle. “She sits for modern dress or the head. Not for the figure. Of course she doesn’t mind a light costume, something diaphanous. Though I’m not quite sure she has any time left. She is always with Mr. Rapper, who does those pastels for the Goupil Art Gallery. He is so very sweet to her. She goes to the theatre and dines with him. I sit myself sometimes, though you mightn’t think so” (giggle). “So of course she can’t sit in the evening, in case you want her for black and white.” (“Just like a woman,” he reflected, cynically, “too careless to take the trouble to discover that I am far too eminent for black and white.”) “I know I’m dressed carelessly just now, I really must be more careful” (giggle). “I have an Empire gown to sit in, very sweet. I will bring it you to look at.”
Ting-a-ting-ting-a-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting.
Yes, it was the sweet Empire gown she was bringing him if it was not her sweeter sister. His experienced eye foresaw the Empire gown—something cut by herself out of muslin, with an old yellow silk sash. He let the last vibration of the bell-wire die away; the creature would know now he was not in. The smoke curled in a blue-gray cloud about his head, as, looking up from the page of the magazine, he gazed dreamily at his half-finished picture, standing on the easel at the other extremity of the great luxurious room, where the westering sun of June sent down a flood of light that brightened the gleam of the gold frames of hanging pictures, touched up rough sketches and preliminary studies standing about, and lay in a splash of brilliancy among the sheets of music and the dainty volumes of poetry and belles-lettres on the grand piano. Suddenly, as his gaze rested with a suspicion of wistfulness on this doubly artistic interior, in which the pictures were only pleasant spots of color in a larger harmony, a harmony of rugs and flowers and tapestry and picturesque properties and bric-à-brac, there shot up in his mind an image of an ancient episode. He saw himself, a shy, homely figure, standing in despairing bitterness on the threshold of an elegant studio—though not so elegant nor so commodious as this—the studio of the brilliant cousin whose life had intersected his own so many years ago. His face changed, a sad smile hovered about the corners of his mouth. Perhaps some unhappy young man was now outside his own less hospitable door, growing hopeless as the echoes alone answered him. He started up hastily, and hurrying into the passage drew back the handle of the door. A slim, fashionably attired gentleman, who was just walking off down the gravel pathway, turned, hearing the sound of the open door, his handsome, clean-shaven, bronzed face radiating joyous amusement.
“You duffer!” he exclaimed.
The famous painter turned pale. His cigarette fell from his mouth, so startled was he. That he should have just been thinking of Herbert Strang seemed almost supernatural. But the nervous feeling was submerged in a wave of happiness; to have Herbert again was an incredible bliss. How lucky he had opened the door!
“Herbert!” he cried, seizing his cousin’s delicately gloved hands with an affectionate impulsiveness worthy of Herbert’s mother.
Herbert surveyed him roguishly. “You’re a nice old pal to make me ring three times. What’s going on inside?”
“Nothing at all,” laughed the painter, in effusive happiness. “Only tea, and that’s cold. But come in.”
“You’re sure I’m not disturbing you,” said Herbert, mischievously.