“Deborah does as Deborah is,” my mother answered, smiling.
Miss Deborah was wearing the apron of ticking that morning that we went to see her—Pelleas and I, who were rather basely making her an excuse for the joy of our morning together. But Miss Deborah would have been the last to condemn that. She was in a room overlooking the valley, and a flood of north light poured on her easel and her idle palette. Miss Deborah was breakfasting; and she explained that she had had a great fit for working very early; and she gave us some delicious tea and crumpets.
“This is the tea,” she told us, “that Cupid and Psyche always drank. At least I suppose that is what the Japanese label says. Or perhaps it says Aucassin and Nicolette.... I am a bit back in my Japanese.” And immediately Miss Deborah nodded at me a little and murmured that I crimsoned as prettily as either of these ladies.
Then: “They tell me that you two are betrothed,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Why is that?”
At that I blushed again and so I have no doubt did Pelleas, for we had not so much as said that word in each other’s presence and to hear it pronounced aloud was the most heavenly torture.
“I suppose you are very much in love,” she answered her question meditatively. “Well, I believe you. I believe you so thoroughly that I would like to paint you. What barbarism it is,” she went on, “that they don’t allow young lovers to have their portraits painted together while they are betrothed! Could there be a more delicious bit of history added to any portrait gallery? And what if the marriage never did come off—saving your presence? The history might be all the more delicious for the separation, and the canvas would be quite as valuable. I am at this moment painting two dear little peasant folk whose people flatter me by being delighted. I think that I must really speak to your mother, child, about painting you,” she said.
At that I stole a glance at Pelleas and surprised him at the same pastime. And in that moment I do not think that either the history or the taste of the portrait greatly occupied us; for neither of us could pass with serenity the idea of the sittings. Together, mornings, in that still, sun-flooded studio. What joy for those other lovers. In those days one had only to mention an impossibly romantic situation for Pelleas and me to live it out in imagination to its minutest joy.
“Of course she will not consent,” Miss Deborah added philosophically, “so if I were you I would have another crumpet. My crumpets are considerably better than my portraits. And my cook does the crumpets.”
She leaned forward in her low chair, and Pelleas and I looked at her in a kind of awe. She was like mother’s Sweet-william that never would blossom in the seed-book colours but came out unexpectedly in the most amazing variegations. She sat with one long, slim hand propping her face, a face attenuated, whimsical in line, with full red mouth and eyes that never bothered with what went on before them so long as this did not obstruct their view.
“What do you think of that picture above your heads?” she asked.