“You can do nothing for me. I shall be taken back to Scythia. Show disappointment about the portrait.”
“If I might venture to offer a suggestion, ma’am, bushes don’t generally wear their branches on the outside,” said Armitage drily, taking the pencil again, and covering Eirene’s writing with light and dark shading bearing a sufficient resemblance to foliage.
“I really must have some lessons,” said she, with renewed admiration. “Chariclea, you are not to tell me that Dr Simovics would object to that.”
“Alas, dearest Princess!” lamented Mme. Ladoguin, who was firm in a not unnatural determination to save herself the wear and tear of the perpetual surveillance any further visits from the artist would entail. “The doctor was most particular in ordering complete rest for mind and eye and hand.”
“If I might have the honour of painting your portrait, ma’am,” ventured Armitage, “I am sure I could manage so that you would find the sittings very little strain. Once we had settled on a characteristic attitude, you could move about as you liked.”
“I knew it wouldn’t be so bad,” said Eirene triumphantly. “You hear, Chariclea?”
“How unfortunate I am, compelled to represent the doctor, and bear the odium of his measures!” cried Mme. Ladoguin distractedly. “I can only say as I did before, let us ask him, madame.”
“I know what that means,” said Eirene, with a pout. “A princess in disgrace is a very helpless person, Mr Armitage.”
“You don’t know what a disappointment it is to me, ma’am,” he answered, while Madame Ladoguin made a deprecating movement. “I had hoped so much from the Duchess’s introduction.”
“When you see her you must tell her that it was not my fault,” said Eirene, scribbling vigorously. “The rock is grey, the walls are white, the roofs red tiles, the bushes grey-green, the sky very blue. I have written the colour on each, so that you may remember. There, Chariclea, what do you think of it?”