West was in the studio when she carried in the tray, and insisted on taking it from her, while Maddison drew up a table to the fireside. Cakes were set close to the blazing fire to keep hot. Maddison drew the curtains and struck a match.
“Don’t light the lamps yet, George,” said Marian, “unless you and Mr. West dislike blindman’s holiday. Stir up the fire and make a big blaze and we’ll have tea by firelight; it’s much more cozy—and artistic too, so there!”
The rough cottage fireplace, with old-fashioned blue tiles and broad grate; the rich blaze; the dark background of the studio; Marian, her red-gold hair gloriously lit by the dancing flames, graceful, lithe; Maddison, with his dusky, refined face and his midnight eyes; West, long, lank, angular, with his shock of dark hair and his eyes of deep blue: the man of art, the man of the world, and the woman; each man wishing that the other were absent.
“Now, Mr. West, open the door,” said Marian, after tea, as she put the cups and saucers together on the tray. “Please open the door—I’m off to wash up. I always wash up the tea things, because it secures a lecture from Mrs. Witchout in the morning, which is always delightful. You and George can talk high art and smoke.”
Maddison lit a pipe, while West contented himself with a cigarette.
“When you told me about yourself and Mrs. Squire, I naturally thought you’d made a fool of yourself or been made a fool of, Maddison,” West said, as he prowled about; “but you’re a lucky devil. She’s a clever, interesting woman. No wonder she couldn’t stick to the curate—I wonder how she ever came to marry him. Hullo! Here’s ‘The Rebel.’ Can’t see by this jumpy light—is it finished?”
“Yes—as far as I can finish it.”
“If you can’t, who can? Anything else on hand beside the portrait of the missis?”
“No.”
“You’re getting lazy. You’re enjoying yourself too much. I must tell Mrs. Squire to buck you up and make you work. Don’t forget, old chap, that I want ‘The Rebel’ if you’ll let me have it. I don’t mind your doing a replica for yourself, provided you never part with it. Think it over. You haven’t much more than three months before you’ll have to send in—I forgot you’re a blooming A.R.A.—but buck up, it don’t do to rest on your oars nowadays, competition’s too keen and you must keep yourself before the public if you don’t want to be forgotten.”