The artist looked at him keenly ... but the pallid earnestness of Robert’s expression beneath the humouring simper convinced him ... it was true ... he was potty. Well, he must just humour him ... he had to get those sketches off to-day ... and he didn’t look dangerous.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, and added with a burst of inspiration, “gadzooks.”
For a minute or two he worked in silence. Then—he found the pose he had chosen rather difficult, and for a few seconds he stood frowning at Robert meditatively. The artist’s bushy eyebrows made him look very ferocious when he frowned. Robert began to tremble. The man might fly at him or something. He must say something about Charles the First to soothe him ... at once.... What a pity he knew so little about Charles the First ... except that he was executed ... or was he executed?... Better avoid that part of it perhaps, especially as presumably he was supposed to be still alive.... He didn’t even know whom Charles the First had married. He might, of course, have been a bachelor.... He must say something quickly.... The man’s stare was growing positively murderous.... With a ghastly smile he said:
“King Charles’—er—wife—was looking well this morning.”
The man’s ferocious stare vanished. Robert heaved a sigh of relief and furtively wiped his brow.
“Er—yes, wasn’t she?” said the artist, who’d moved a little to one side and so got a better view of his sitter, “do you mind turning a little more this way?” and added as an afterthought, “prithee, gadzooks!”
Robert obediently turned a little that way and for a few minutes all was well. The artist sketched in silence. Robert was beginning to feel a little less nervous. He gazed round the studio.... Where was SHE, he wondered?... Perhaps already preparing to fly with him to her aunt’s in Scotland.... He hoped that she’d remember to bring along a few heirlooms to pawn, but then he thought with dismay that he’d never pawned anything in his life and didn’t know how one set about it. That was awful. He couldn’t help admitting that he seemed rather inadequate for the glorious rôle which Fate had thrust upon him. Then he comforted himself by the thought that every hero had to start, had to do the thing for the first time. It would probably be all right. The artist became suddenly doubtful about the pose again. He didn’t think it was quite natural. Once more he gazed frowningly at the sitter and once more the perspiration stood out on Robert’s brow. He must say something else about Charles the First at once. He searched feverishly in his mind for something else to say about Charles the First. He wished he’d tried harder with his history when he was at school. It was awful knowing nothing, nothing about Charles the First. He couldn’t even remember what he looked like though he knew that there’d been pictures of all the kings and queens in his history book. By Jove, that was an idea.
“King Charles,” he said, “had his picture painted ... the one in the history b——I mean just had his picture painted. It turned out quite a good likeness, I believe.”
“Did it?” said the artist, “could you move your head a bit to the right?” and added, “grammercy. You a friend of His Majesty’s, I suppose?”
Robert grew yet paler. It was a most awkward question. If he said he was it might arouse this madman to frenzy, and if he said that he wasn’t it might equally rouse this madman to frenzy.... The whole thing was terrible, being alone with a madman like this.... He almost wished he’d never come ... not quite, of course ... he still remembered the vision of beauty he’d seen at the upstairs window.... He coughed again and said, “Well—er—are you?”