Dulcie, still in the hands of Selinda, had not yet 106 emerged. The Prophet sat upright on the carved table, motionless as a cat of ebony with green-jewelled eyes.
“Well, old sport,” said Barres, stepping across the rug to caress the cat, “you and your pretty mistress begin to look very interesting on my canvas.”
The Prophet received the blandishments with dignified gratitude. A discreet and feathery purring filled the room as Barres stroked the jet black, silky fur.
“Fine cat, you are,” commented the young man, turning as Dulcie entered.
She laid one hand on his extended arm and sprang lightly to the model stand. And the next moment she was seated—a slim, gemmed thing glimmering with imperial jade from top to toe.
Barres laid the Prophet in her arms, stepped back while Dulcie arranged the docile cat, then retreated to his canvas.
“All right, Sweetness?”
“All right,” replied the child happily. And the morning séance was on.
Barres was usually inclined to ramble along conversationally in his pleasant, detached way while at work, particularly if work went well.
“Where were we yesterday, Dulcie? Oh, yes; we were talking about the Victorian era and its art; and we decided that it was not the barren desert that the ultra-moderns would have us believe. That’s what we decided, wasn’t it?”