“I find her looking exceedingly well,” he said, trying to change the subject; “and you, also,” he added courteously.
She looked up at him through her narrow slits of eyes, a trick which some men found fascinating.
“Claudia is the type that goes on getting better-looking until she arrives at the age of fifty, then she remains handsome and distinguished, especially when her hair gets white. It’s a good job our styles don’t clash, or I should have to avoid her. But we are quite different. She is the charming, sympathetic, give-all type which has its admirers, and I—I hold men with a whip, which I don’t hesitate to use. You know the play Doormats? Well, I am the boot.” She laughed insolently. “Now you like the Claudia type. So does Frank Hamilton.”
“Frank Hamilton? Is that the new artist that——”
“Yes, Claudia has made a success of him. She first introduced him socially, and they say he is deluged with commissions for portraits. He isn’t as strong as Sargent or Lavery, and I shouldn’t wonder if he fizzles out, but he has a trick of pleasing his sitters and doing very graceful work. I believe he is doing a portrait of Claudia. That is he over there.”
She pointed quite openly with her fingers to a young man who stood at Claudia’s elbow, holding some cigarettes. There was something in his very attitude that suggested his admiration for his hostess.
Image saw a tall, broad-shouldered, but loose-jointed figure, that spoke more of the studio than the cricket-field. His features were good, graceful rather than strong, and the whole face, he could see, would be one that would please women. His hazel eyes had an appealing, rather wistful look in them, and his mouth, if rather weak, spoke of a taste for and appreciation of beauty and luxury.
“Claudia should prove a good subject for his brush,” said Image, exchanging a nod with a foreign diplomatist whom he knew. “I have heard people speak of him and predict great things for his future.”
“Mostly women, I suppose? Women like him and men—are not keen about him. But then he’s not keen on them. Women fill the bill. A good many of them are taking him up, and I don’t think his head can stand it. He hates me like poison. He loves to talk about himself, and I love and intend to talk about myself. He told a dear friend of mine, who never loses an opportunity of repeating the nasty things that are said about me, that I had the eyes of a Lucretia Borgia.”
“I have always wondered what colour they really are,” said Image, playing up to her obvious lead.