Soon Redgrave, the R. A. who had given Clytie her first encouragement in her art, came up to talk with her. He had been following her career with some interest. Since the exhibition of “Jack” he had not seen her, and he took the opportunity of offering his congratulations, criticising the picture favourably. Then he inquired after its successor.
“But I don't think you will ever become a great artist, if you keep to that semi-impressionist style.”
Being a portrait-painter of exquisite finish, Redgrave was prejudiced against the school of Degas. He mentioned his name with some acerbity.
“Talking treason again, Redgrave?” asked a thin, wiry man in gold spectacles, who had overheard. “Don't listen to him, Miss Davenant. He is archaic and eating his soul out with jealousy. There's no one in England who can touch you in your particular line. You stick to it!”
“You are quoting the rubbish you wrote in your paper, French,” said Redgrave, laughing. “Now, whom are you going to believe, this newspaper man or me?”
“Whoever will help me best to sell my pictures,” laughed Clytie.
“Then leave your future with me,” said Mr. French, rubbing his hands as he moved away.
“You didn't mean that?” asked Redgrave.
“A little. One must live. Higher art, to use the cant phrase, would satisfy one's soul's needs better—but it would not those of the body.”
Redgrave looked at her for a moment, as if meditating over her rich colouring and fine vitality. A body such as hers had its needs. He smiled a little sadly and shook his head.