“I am writing a book on mediæval life, especially in regard to its æsthetic values. There is a good deal of research to be done, and old illustrations, illuminations and tapestries to be reproduced. It is to be a big book, quite comprehensive.”
Eve soon discovered that Hugh Massinger could not be impersonal in anything that he undertook. The “I” “I” “I” oozed out everywhere.
“Miss Champion assured me that you are a fine colourist. Colour is the blood of life. That is why people who are colour mystics can wear black. The true colour, like the blood, is underneath. I noticed, directly I came into the room, that you were wearing black. It convinced me at once that you would be a sympathetic worker. My art requires sympathy.”
She smiled disarmingly.
“I’m afraid my black is conventional.”
“I should say that it is not. I suppose you have worked in the Museum?”
“For two or three months.”
“Deathly place! How life goes to dust and to museums! I’ll not ask you to go there more than I can help.”
His melancholy eyes drooped over her, and filled her with a determination to be nothing but practical. She thought of Kate Duveen.
“It’s my work, and I’m used to it.”