He laughed with sudden boyishness and nodded gaily.
“Why, yes—so long as people continue to cover their wall-space with portraits of themselves.”
Magda wondered whether he was possibly a well-known painter. But he gave her no chance to find out, for he continued speaking almost at once.
“I love my art—but a still, flat canvas, however beautifully painted, isn’t comparable with the moving, living interpretation of beauty possible to a dancer. I remember, years ago—ten years, quite—seeing a kiddy dancing in a wood.” Magda leaned forward. “It was the prettiest thing imaginable. She was all by herself, a little, thin, black-and-white wisp of a thing, with a small, tense face and eyes like black smudges. And she danced as though it were more natural to her than walking. I got her to pose for me at the foot of a tree. The picture of her was my first real success. So you see, I’ve good reason to be grateful to one dancer!”
Magda caught her breath. She knew now why the man’s face had seemed so familiar! He was the artist she had met in the wood at Coverdale the day Sieur Hugh had beaten her—her “Saint Michel”! She was conscious of a queer little thrill of excitement as the truth dawned upon her.
“What was the picture called?” she asked, forcing herself to speak composedly.
“‘The Repose of Titania.’”
She nodded. The picture was a very well-known one. Everybody knew by whom it had been painted.
“Then you must be Michael Quarrington?”
“Yes. So now, we’ve been introduced, haven’t we?”