“There’s no top to the pinnacle of work—of achievement,” he answered quietly. “At least, there shouldn’t be. One just goes on—slipping back a bit, sometimes, then scrambling on again.” His glance returned to the picture and Magda watched the ardour of the creative artist light itself anew in his eyes. “That”—he nodded towards the canvas—“is going to be the best bit of work I’ve done.”
“What made you”—she hesitated a moment—“what made you choose Circe as the subject?”
His face clouded over.
“The experience of a friend of mine.”
Magda caught her breath.
“Not—you don’t mean——-”
“Oh, no”—divining her thought—“not the friend of whom you know—who loved the dancer. She hurt him”—looking at her significantly—“but she didn’t injure him to that extent. Circe turned men into swine, you remember. My friend was too fine a character for her to spoil like that.”
“I’m glad.” Magda spoke very low, her head bent. She felt unable to meet his eyes. After a short silence she asked: “Then what inspired—this picture?”
Was it some woman-episode that had occurred while he was abroad which had scored those new lines on his face, embittering the mouth and implanting that sternly sad expression in the grey eyes? She must know—at all hazards, she must know!
Quarrington lit a cigarette.