“I got the pose from the vase the Duchess of Portland bought from you a while ago, and I called it ‘The Pompeian Dancer,’ as there is a certain amount of interest taken in the excavations now. You like it?” says Greville, lowering his voice.
“Divine!” whispered Sir William briefly, impatient of the words and concentrating every sense on the vision.
“Then what would you think if you could but see it as it should be done! Romney has contrived a light in the studio, a strong light that falls on the left, and she stands in an immense picture frame and—”
He saw Sir William was not listening and stopped. His soul was in his eyes. Presently she drooped aside and slid on to the floor and so sat, with chin cupped in soft hand and one long bright lock falling beside her throat, her pensive eyes, lakes of sorrow, following a far, far ship receding in dimmest distance—Ariadne watching the departing Theseus who carried all her joys with him. Was she thinking of her long-ago sailor? Did she catch up past experiences and mould them into present beauty, or was it drawn from some deep well of ancient mysterious pre-natal experience beyond all guessing of herself or others? No one ever knew. She never knew herself. It was; as inevitably as the trees repeat their ancient symphony of bloom, and joy returns from the past with each revolving year.
This was but the beginning of those famous Attitudes which were later to hold the world. But such as they were they struck the gazer dumb. He came to them fresh and saw them complete, unlike Greville who had known the inception and quarrelled with Romney and Emma alike over the set of a fold, the poise of a wrist and so forth. To him it appeared a miracle of finished beauty. He said as much when she had presented the four poses which were all she had as yet designed and, taking her hand, kissed her again on the cheek and thanked her for an afternoon of such pleasure as he had rarely experienced. Greville also thanked her with a cordiality she had missed of late and the returning warmth cheered her like the glow of sunshine. He forgave—he loved her. The way back to his heart was to please this charming uncle who meant ease, freedom from anxiety and all else to her Greville. Indeed it should not be difficult. She would do her utmost, joyfullest best.
They took her to the play that night, and Sir William and she laughed at the comedy of the frolicsome Mrs. Jordan together, while the smiling Greville sat beside them in the box and loaded her with every attention she had missed. He was resolved Sir William should be well aware of the value of this treasure.
Emma slept that night satiate with happiness.
CHAPTER VIII
THE BARGAIN
The friendship between Emma and the Ambassador strengthened every day, and to Greville’s secret amusement and satisfaction, he was continually in Edgware Row. London, apart from the antiquarian interests in which he met congenial spirits, was tame and dull in comparison with the delight of sitting with “the fair tea-maker” as he called her, listening to the wonderful voice, suggesting yet more wonderful Attitudes, lounging for hours in Romney’s studio where he made his unwearied studies of Emma in every character that literature or her own marvellous versatility could suggest. He gave an order to Romney for her portrait as a Bacchante that he might not be parted (so he said) from so much beauty when he was compelled to return to Naples.
“Oh, but don’t talk of return, my kind dear friend, I beseech you! What shall we do, Greville and me, when you go? You take the sunlight with you!” said Emma with an expression of pain and fear in those irresistible eyes. “If you did but know, but you can’t, what happiness you have brought with you! All my Greville’s anxieties seem to have vanished away, and we live as care-free as the birds yonder. What don’t I owe you! If I could repay it—ah, if I could!”