He painted that picture later when the days were warmer. It was a picture that was to travel far away from England, and it was to keep alive in the heart of a woman the memory of a secret—a secret of three weeks of glorious happiness and a strange regret—a secret known only to herself and to three other living people.
CHAPTER XIV
VARIOUS MATTERS
AND so Barnabas departed to Paris in the attempt to find some clue regarding the scrap of humanity which the Fates had led to Miss Mason’s studio. It was not that Miss Mason cared in the smallest degree what her parentage was. She was just a lonely little soul needing love, and so Miss Mason had taken her into her arms and into her big heart. Dan had once said of Miss Mason, and only shortly after making her acquaintance:
“I veritably believe that woman has the biggest hands, the biggest feet, and the biggest heart of any woman in Christendom.” And the more he knew of her the more convinced he felt of the truth of his statement.
But even a big heart is not entirely sufficient guarantee for taking possession of a small girl. One can no more pick one up and keep it than one can pick up a valuable ornament and place it on one’s mantelpiece. At any rate, if one did there would always be the uncomfortable feeling that the rightful owner might one day walk casually up to it and say:
“That is mine.”
Barnabas understood this, and therefore he had gone off to Paris to see if there were any likelihood of a rightful owner turning up one day to claim Pippa. It was wiser that Miss Mason should not get too attached to her possession before he had made sure on that point. Also there was the memory of Philippe Kostolitz.
But while he was gone Miss Mason petted the child to her heart’s content, bought dainty undergarments and charming frocks, and played that delightful game of “mother,” which is a game all women have played throughout eternity at some time in their lives, even if it is only played with a rag doll wrapped in a shawl.
And while she was playing, and while Pippa was enjoying the game almost as much as she was and revelling in frilly petticoats, long black stockings, buckled shoes, and soft green frocks—green seemed to belong to her, for some reason, as a matter of course—the other five artists of the courtyard were living their lives, painting their pictures, smoking their pipes, and being happy or miserable according to their moods.