A month later he had received a small volume of poems addressed in a hand in which he had already received three short notes agreeing to sittings. The verses—true poetry—were written under a nom de plume. What St. Aubyn’s reason was for keeping his poetical talent a secret from the world Paul never knew. The volume came to him in silence from the author; he respected the silence, attempting no word of thanks. And the secret his insight had wrested from the man went with other secrets somewhere away in the hidden recesses of his mind, while his work alone absorbed him.
He never pursued his knowledge of men and women further. It sufficed—or seemed to suffice him—to portray that knowledge on canvas, and leave it for those to read who had the heart to do so. As he had passed before among men and women of varied nationalities, making no real friends, so he passed now among varied types, noting them, painting them, and dismissing them, still making no friend. The lonely reserve he had gained in his wanderings pursued him now. He could not throw it off. Barnabas and Dan were nearer true friendship with him than any, and more because they had silently accepted him for their friend than from any advance on his part. It seemed that he could make none. The solitude of the plains, the loneliness of big spaces, seemed to have claimed his spirit.
And so he painted portraits, from statesmen to small girls, gaining intimate knowledge of them, while no one yet had learnt to know the real Paul.
It was very much later in the day, long after Marjorie had departed led by an indignant nurse muttering to herself regarding the carelessness of “them artists,” for not only Marjorie’s face, but her best white dress was covered with various smears of brown chocolate—it was long after this that Paul looked once more at his pocket-book. He looked at it to make sure that the hour Christopher would arrive for him was four-fifteen, and not four o’clock. The former was there plainly inscribed, written by Paul with a small gold pencil.
There were just two entries for that day—Friday, November 27th, “M.A. 10 o’clock” and “4.15 o’clock. C.C.” Little did Paul think as he looked at it that he would treasure that small page as one would treasure one’s passage to heaven.
Christopher arrived at the studio punctually to the second, and found Paul ready for him. The two turned into Oakley Street and came down towards the Embankment. It was already past sunset, and the houses and river were shrouded in a soft mist. They reached the house near Swan Walk and went up the steps.
“The Duchessa di Corleone at home?” asked Christopher of the footman who opened the door.
“Will you come this way, sir,” was the answer, and he led them up the wide shallow stairs. He threw open a door.
Paul saw a room of pale lavenders, with the chrysanthemums like patches of sunlight. A woman rose from a chair by the fire and came forward to greet them. The window was behind her as she came forward, and the room being in twilight he could not see her face distinctly, but he saw the outlines of her graceful figure, and caught the glint of her red-brown hair.