“China.... Why, why, why?...”
“No, but listen, Banner, do you remember Mr. Leung—Leung Tok Ngo—who was so encouraging about the future of American art in the Orient? He said the Chinese just didn’t begin to appreciate the occidental artistic ideals of today; the man in the street in the Orient, he said, would gape at you if you talked of Cezanne or Pizarro. Of course he took back Benstead’s Portrait of a Naked Broker to his home in Shanghai; but that’s only one, my dear, to a population of four hundred million. Now listen, Banner, I kinda think I’ll make a genuine United States drummer out of this Britisher ... a drummer of ideals, if you get me. Edward Williams is so darn glum—he surely must be an idealist. No real artist that I know has anything on Edward for real bad manners, and bad manners always gets the dilettante. I’m going to send Edward to China with two or three dozen of those studies of mine that didn’t sell at the Rebel’s Show. Leung is in Shanghai and can help him. I tell you I’m through with him. The Orient’s gotter take its turn at him now. I’ll give him expenses one way and commission, and then I quit.... Not that, as I say, I’m not just crazy about Edward Williams personally.”
She was very direct. She left Banner Hope and approached Edward. He sat slackly on an arm-chair, arms forward, palms up, as though asking for something.
“Say, listen, Edward, what’s your opinion of my pictures?”
This much too general opening left no room for the convention of appreciation that the careful Edward had prepared. After some thought he therefore answered, “I think they’re very nice.”
Miss Romero shrieked, “Very nice! Oh, Edward, you’re so discouragingly British.” She proceeded to convey to him the politer aspects of his banishment to China. The illusion of usefulness and a certain silliness about the plan attracted Edward, who would have refused an offer of solid travelling employment with a fixed salary. Even before he heard of the commission he said, “Right you are, Rhoda. There’s nothing in the world to stop me going whenever you say.”
Emily came in. She had made friends with Avery Bird without introduction at an Italian eating-house. Mr. Bird’s lively yet—if the truth must be told—quite innocent friendships with women were part of the game he and Rhoda were playing. Rhoda offset them by discussing passion with all the men who came to the studio.
In picking up Emily Mr. Bird felt that he was unusually well justified. She was, of course, English, but, on the other hand, she was beautiful.
Emily had fierce, almost agonised, eyes under up-slanting brows. She had brushed her dark hair rather flatly to a smoothly wrought Chinese puzzle at the back of her head and, in the middle of her brow, her hair grew down to a little point which was consistent with the fact that every line in her face was rather keen and curious and very definite.
When Edward Williams saw Emily he thought at once, “What a miracle,” and as his heart went to his throat the cocktail that he was drinking met it, so that he choked without reserve or dignity. When he recovered he found with delight that he could hear every word she said. But after his third cocktail he could always hear well. He thought, “I wish I had reminded Rhoda that I wish to be called Reynald in future instead of Edward. Rhoda always forgets the things I want. That girl would surely look round at me if she heard somebody call out Reynald.”