“Could I have my slippers?” She was very shy even about her bare feet when she was not actually posing.
He found her slippers for her, laid them beside the lounge, and strolled away. Westmore rang a moment later, but when he blew in like a noisy breeze Dulcie had disappeared.
“My little model toppled over,” said Barres, taking his visitor’s outstretched hand and wincing under the grip. “I shall cut out work while this weather lasts.”
Westmore turned toward the Arethusa, laughed at the visible influence of Manship.
“All the same, Garry,” he said, “there’s a lot in your running nymph. It’s nice; it’s knowing.”
“That is pleasant to hear from a sculptor.”
“Sculptor? Sometimes I feel like a sculpin—prickly heat, you know.” He laughed heartily at his own witticism, slapped Barres on the shoulder, lighted a pipe, and flung himself on the couch recently vacated by Dulcie.
“This damned war,” he said, “takes the native gaiety out of a man—takes the laughter out of life. Over two years of it now, Garry; and it’s as though the sun is slowly growing dimmer every day.”
“I know,” nodded Barres.