does your daughter despise it, too?”
“No; she’s studying it.”
“Oh, really! How interesting! I do think the rising generation amusing, don’t you? They’re so independent.”
Cecilia looked uneasily at the rising generation. They were standing side by side before the picture, curiously observant and detached, exchanging short remarks and glances. They seemed to watch all these circling, chatting, bending, smiling people with a sort of youthful, matter-of-fact, half-hostile curiosity. The young man had a pale face, clean-shaven, with a strong jaw, a long, straight nose, a rather bumpy forehead which did not recede, and clear grey eyes. His sarcastic lips were firm and quick, and he looked at people with disconcerting straightness. The young girl wore a blue-green frock. Her face was charming, with eager, hazel-grey eyes, a bright colour, and fluffy hair the colour of ripe nuts.
“That’s your sister’s picture, ‘The Shadow,’ they’re looking at, isn’t it?” asked Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace. “I remember seeing it on Christmas Day, and the little model who was sitting for it – an attractive type! Your brother-in-law told me how interested you all were in her. Quite a romantic story, wasn’t it, about her fainting from want of food when she first came to sit?”
Cecilia murmured something. Her hands were moving nervously; she looked ill at ease.
These signs passed unperceived by Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace, whose eyes were busy.
“In the F.H.M.P., of course, I see a lot of young girls placed in delicate positions, just on the borders, don’t you know? You should really join the F.H.M.P., Mrs. Dallison. It’s a first-rate thing – most absorbing work.”
The doubting deepened in Cecilia’s eyes.
“Oh, it must be!” she said. “I’ve so little time.”
Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace went on at once.
“Don’t you think that we live in the most interesting days? There are such a lot of movements going on. It’s quite exciting. We all feel that we can’t shut our eyes any longer to social questions. I mean the condition of the people alone is enough to give one nightmare!”
“Yes, yes,” said Cecilia; “it is dreadful, of course.
“Politicians and officials are so hopeless, one can’t look for anything from them.”
Cecilia drew herself up. “Oh, do you think so?” she said.
“I was just talking to Mr. Balladyce. He says that Art and Literature must be put on a new basis altogether.”
“Yes,” said Cecilia; “really? Is he that funny little man?”
“I think he’s so monstrously clever.”
Cecilia answered quickly: “I know – I know. Of course, something must be done.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace absently, “I think we all feel that. Oh, do tell me! I’ve been talking to such a delightful person – just the type you see when you go into the City – thousands of them, all in such good black coats. It’s so unusual to really meet one nowadays; and they’re so refreshing, they have such nice simple views. There he is, standing just behind your sister.”
Cecilia by a nervous gesture indicated that she recognized the personality alluded to. “Oh, yes,” she said; “Mr. Purcey. I don’t know why he comes to see us.”
“I think he’s so delicious!” said Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace dreamily. Her little dark eyes, like bees, had flown to sip honey from the flower in question – a man of broad build and medium height, dressed. with accuracy, who seemed just a little out of his proper bed. His mustachioed mouth wore a set smile; his cheerful face was rather red, with a forehead of no extravagant height or breadth, and a conspicuous jaw; his hair was thick and light in colour, and his eyes were small, grey, and shrewd. He was looking at a picture.
“He’s so delightfully unconscious,” murmured Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace. “He didn’t even seem to know that there was a problem of the lower classes.”
“Did he tell you that he had a picture?” asked Cecilia gloomily.
“Oh yes, by Harpignies, with the accent on the ‘pig.’ It’s worth three times what he gave for it. It’s so nice to be made to feel that there is still all that mass of people just simply measuring everything by what they gave for it.”
“And did he tell you my grandfather Carfax’s dictum in the Banstock case?” muttered Cecilia.
“Oh yes: ‘The man who does not know his own mind should be made an Irishman by Act of Parliament.’ He said it was so awfully good.”
“He would,” replied Cecilia.
“He seems to depress you, rather!”
“Oh no; I believe he’s quite a nice sort of person. One can’t be rude to him; he really did what he thought a very kind thing to my father. That’s how we came to know him. Only it’s rather trying when he will come to call regularly. He gets a little on one’s nerves.”
“Ah, that’s just what I feel is so jolly about him; no one would ever get on his nerves. I do think we’ve got too many nerves, don’t you? Here’s your brother-in-law. He’s such an uncommon-looking man; I want to have a talk with him about that little model. A country girl, wasn’t she?”
She had turned her head towards a tall man with a very slight stoop and a brown, thin, bearded face, who was approaching from the door. She did not see that Cecilia had flushed, and was looking at her almost angrily. The tall thin man put his hand on Cecilia’s arm, saying gently: “Hallo Cis! Stephen here yet?”
Cecilia shook her head.
“You know Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace, Hilary?”
The tall man bowed. His hazel-coloured eyes were shy, gentle, and deep-set; his eyebrows, hardly ever still, gave him a look of austere whimsicality. His dark brown hair was very lightly touched with grey, and a frequent kindly smile played on his lips. His unmannerised manner was quiet to the point of extinction. He had long, thin, brown hands, and nothing peculiar about his dress.
“I’ll leave you to talk to Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace,” Cecilia said.
A knot of people round Mr. Balladyce prevented her from moving far, however, and the voice of Mrs. Smallpeace travelled to her ears.
“I was talking about that little model. It was so good of you to take such interest in the girl. I wondered whether we could do anything for her.”
Cecilia’s hearing was too excellent to miss the tone of Hilary’s reply:
“Oh, thank you; I don’t think so.”
“I fancied perhaps you might feel that our Society – hers is an unsatisfactory profession for young girls!”
Cecilia saw the back of Hilary’s neck grow red. She turned her head away.
“Of course, there are many very nice models indeed,” said the voice of Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace. “I don’t mean that they are necessarily at all – if they’re girls of strong character; and especially if they don’t sit for the – the altogether.”
Hilary’s dry, staccato answer came to Cecilia’s ears: “Thank you; it’s very kind of you.”
“Oh, of course, if it’s not necessary. Your wife’s picture was so clever, Mr. Dallison – such an interesting type.”
Without intention Cecilia found herself before that picture. It stood with its face a little turned towards the wall, as though somewhat in disgrace, portraying the full-length figure of a girl standing in deep shadow, with her arms half outstretched, as if asking for something. Her eyes were fixed on Cecilia, and through her parted lips breath almost seemed to come. The only colour in the picture was the pale blue of those eyes, the pallid red of those parted lips, the still paler brown of the hair; the rest was shadow. In the foreground light was falling as though from a street-lamp.
Cecilia