The parlourmaid—unmistakably a twentieth-century product—conducted them into a beautiful Old English room, its walls panelled in dark oak, while heavy oaken beams traversed the ceiling. Logs burned merrily on the big open hearth, throwing up showers of golden sparks. Above the chimneypiece there was a wonderful old plaster coat-of-arms, dating back to the seventeenth century, and the watery gleams of sunshine, filtering in through the diamond panes of latticed windows, fell lingeringly on the waxen surface of an ancient dresser. On the dresser shelves were lodged some willow-pattern plates, their clear, tender blue bearing witness to an early period.
"How like Maryon it all is!" whispered Nan.
And just then Rooke himself came into the room. He had altered very little. It was the same supple, loose-limbed figure that approached. The pointed Van Dyck beard was as carefully trimmed, the hazel eyes, with their misleading softness of appeal, as arresting as of old. Perhaps he bore himself with a little more assurance. There might have been a shade less of the Bohemian and a shade more of the successful artist about him.
But Rooke would never suffer from the inordinate complacency which spoils so many successful men. Always it would be tempered by that odd, cynical humour of his. Beautiful ladies who gushed at him merely amused him, and received in return some charming compliment or other that rang as hollow as a kettle-drum. Politicians who came to him for their portraits were gently made to feel that their favourite oratorical attitude—which they inevitably assumed when asked to pose themselves quite naturally—was not really overwhelmingly effective, while royalties who perforce condescended to attend his studio—since he flatly declined to paint them in their palaces—found that he was inclined to overlook the matter of their royal blood and to portray them as though they were merely men and women.
There was an amusing little story going the rounds in connection with a certain peeress—one of the "new rich" fraternity—who had recently sat to Rooke for her portrait. Her husband's title had presumably been conferred in recognition of the arduous services—of an industrial and financial nature—which he had rendered during the war. The lady was inclined to be refulgent on the slightest provocation, and when Rooke had discussed with her his ideas for her portrait she had indignantly repudiated his suggestion that only a simple evening gown and furs should be worn.
"But it will look like the picture of a mere nobody," she had protested. "Of—of just anyone!"
"Of anyone—or someone," came Rooke's answer. "The portrait of a great lady should be able to indicate . . . which."
The newly-fledged peeress proceeded to explain that her own idea had been that she should be painted wearing her state robes and coronet—plus any additional jewels which could find place on her person.
Maryon bowed affably.
"But, by all means," he agreed. "Only, if it is of them you require a portrait, you must go to Grégoire Marni. He paints still-life."