“Did we never tell you,” Bianca answered softly, “that my father was a rather well—known man of science before his illness?”
“Ah!” replied Mr. Purcey, a little puzzled; “that, of course. D'you know, of all your pictures, Mrs. Dallison, I think that one you call 'The Shadow' is the most rippin'. There's a something about it that gets hold of you. That was the original, wasn't it, at your Christmas party—attractive girl—it's an awf'ly good likeness.”
Bianca's face had changed, but Mr. Purcey was not a man to notice a little thing like that.
“If ever you want to part with it,” he said, “I hope you'll give me a chance. I mean it'd be a pleasure to me to have it. I think it'll be worth a lot of money some day.”
Bianca did not answer, and Mr. Purcey, feeling suddenly a little awkward, said: “I've got my car waiting. I must be off—really.” Shaking hands with all of them, he went away.
When the door had closed behind his back, a universal sigh went up. It was followed by a silence, which Hilary broke.
“We'll smoke, Stevie, if Cis doesn't mind.”
Stephen Dallison placed a cigarette between his moustacheless lips, always rather screwed up, and ready to nip with a smile anything that might make him feel ridiculous.
“Phew!” he said. “Our friend Purcey becomes a little tedious. He seems to take the whole of Philistia about with him.”
“He's a very decent fellow,” murmured Hilary.