And because he had loved Philippe Kostolitz he said no more. But his eyes again grew sad. For Barnabas held very straight views on some subjects, and he dreaded lest the whiteness of his friend’s honour had been in the smallest degree smirched.
CHAPTER XV
A QUESTION OF COLOUR
PIPPA became part of the life of the six artists of the courtyard, and they all wondered, if they ever thought about the matter at all, however they had managed to get on without her.
She seemed to belong in some special way to Barnabas. That fact was one of mutual recognition. Michael found himself stopping suddenly in the middle of his cynical little speeches when she was present. It is impossible to be cynical with a child’s eyes fixed on one, drinking in every word. Dan kept her supplied with chocolates, and gave her a grey kitten. Jasper painted her a picture of the Blessed Virgin. It was the first painting he had done for weeks past without the memory of the house in Chiswick coming as an interruption to his thoughts. The picture, too, held a tenderness not seen in his previous paintings. Paul, for a wonder, allowed her to see his unfinished work, and found amusement in her naïve criticisms. One criticism—to be related presently—was somewhat of a revelation. Alan studied her deeply, saying that the innocent unfolding of a child’s mind was one of the greatest marvels of creation. Her remarks on colour honestly interested him. And in them Barnabas felt more than ever convinced that she was the child of his friend Philippe Kostolitz.
She used to announce quite gravely that people were like colours. Miss Mason she designated as “couleur de rose.” Barnabas himself she said was gold “all sparkling like sunshine.” Paul she insisted was like the purple light that fell across the river at night. Dan was green like the leaves of chrysanthemum foliage. Alan was the colour of the sea. Michael was grey and red. And she refused to assign any colour to Jasper. But when coaxed by Barnabas she confessed it was because he was quite grey, and no pretty colour at all.
One day about the middle of February Pippa lunched with Paul. He announced that he wished her to see the portrait of the Duchessa di Corleone. The Duchessa herself, who had been away since Christmas, was coming for what would probably be a last sitting at two o’clock that afternoon.
“Well?” said Paul, standing near the luncheon table while Pippa gazed upon the portrait, “what do you think of it?”
Pippa wrinkled up her forehead.
“I don’t know,” she said slowly, and she came across to the table looking at Paul with perplexed eyes.