of the most exclusive portraitists in America. Well, it seems he was just crazy to take my picture—’
The anecdote was a long one. Agatha Troy remained silent throughout.
‘Well, when he was through—and say, did I get tired of that dress? —it certainly was one big success. Poppa bought it, and it’s in our reception-hall at Honolulu. Some of the crowd say it doesn’t just flatter, but it looks good to me. I don’t pretend to know a whole lot about art, Miss Troy, but I know what I like.’
‘Quite,’ said Agatha Troy. ‘Look here, I think I’d better get down to my cabin. I haven’t unpacked yet. If you’ll excuse me—’
‘Why, certainly. We’ll be seeing you. Say, have you seen that guy Alleyn around?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know—’
‘He’s tall and thin, and I’ll say he’s good looking. And is he British? Gee! I’m crazy about him. I got a little gamble with these boys, I’ll have him doing figure eights trying to dope out when the petting-party gets started.’
‘I’ve kissed goodbye to my money,’ one of the youths said.
‘Listen to him, will you, Miss Troy? But we certainly saw Mr Alleyn around this way a while back.’
‘He went up to the boat deck,’ said a youth.
‘Oh,’ said Miss Troy clearly. ‘That man! Yes, he’s up there now.’
‘Atta-boy!’
‘Whooppee!’
‘Oh damn!’ said Alleyn softly.
And the next thing that happened was Miss Van Maes showing him how she’d made a real Honolulu lei out of Fijian frangipanni, and asking him to come down with the crowd for a drink.
‘Has this party gone cuckoo or something? We’re three rounds behind the clock. C’m on!’
‘Virginia,’ said a youth, ‘you’re tight.’
‘What the hell! Is it my day to be sober? You coming, Mr Alleyn?’
‘Thank you so much,’ said Alleyn, ‘but if you’ll believe it, I’m a non-drinker at the moment. Doctor’s orders.’
‘Aw, be funny!’
‘Fact. I assure you.’
‘Mr Alleyn’s thinking of the lady with the picture,’ said a youth.
‘What—her? With her face all mussed in green paint. Mr Alleyn’s not screwy yet, is he? Gee, I’ll say a woman’s got no self-respect to go around that way in public. Did you get a look at that smock? And the picture! Well, I had to be polite and say it was cute, but it’s nobody’s big sorrow she didn’t finish it. The wharf at Suva! Seems I struck it lucky, but what it’s meant for’s just anyone’s guess. C’m on, Mr Strong-Silent Sleuth, put me out of my agony and say she don’t mean one thing to you.’
‘Miss Van Maes,’ said Alleyn, ‘do you know that you make me feel very middle-aged and inexpressibly foolish? I haven’t got the smallest idea what the right answer is to any single one of your questions.’
‘Maybe I could teach you. Maybe I could teach you a whole lot of fun, honey.’
‘You’re very kind, but, do you know, I’m afraid I’m past the receptive age.’
She widened her enormous eyes. The mascaraed lashes stuck out round them like black toothpicks. Her ash-fair hair was swept back from her very lovely face into a cluster of disciplined and shining curls. She had the un-human good looks of a film star. Undoubtedly she was rather tight.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘my bet with the boys is still good. Twenty-five’ll get anybody fifty you kiss me before we hit Honolulu. And I don’t mean maybe.’
‘I should be very much honoured—’
‘Yeah? And I don’t mean the get-by-the-censor stuff, either. No, sir!’
She stared at him, and upon her normally blank and beautiful face there dawned a look of doubt.
‘Say,’ she said, ‘you’re not going to tell me you got a yen for that woman?’
‘I don’t know what a yen is,’ Alleyn said, ‘but I’ve got nothing at all for Miss Troy, and I can assure you she has got even less than that for me.’
From Miss Agatha Troy to her friend, Miss Katti Bostock, the well-known painter of plumbers, miners and Negro musicians:
S. S. Niagara, August 1st.
Dear Katti,
I am breaking this journey at Quebec, so you’ll get this letter about a fortnight before I get home. I’m glad everything is fixed up for next term. It’s a bore in some ways having to teach, but now I’ve reached the giddy heights of picking and choosing I don’t find it nearly so irksome. Damn good of you to do all the arranging for me. If you can, get the servants into the house by Sept. 1st—I get back on the 3rd—they ought to have everything fixed up by the 10th, when we start classes. Your air mail reached Suva the day we sailed. Yes, book Sonia Gluck for model. The little swine’s beautiful and knows how to pose as long as she behaves herself. You yourself might do a big nude for the Group Show on the 16th or thereabouts. You paint well from the nude and I think you shouldn’t remain wedded to your plumbers—your stuff will get static if you don’t look out. I don’t think I told you who is coming next term. Here is the list!
(1) Francis Ormerin. He’s painting in Paris at the moment, but says the lot at Malaquin’s has come all over surrealist and he can’t see it and doesn’t want to. Says he’s depressed about his work or something.
(2) Valmai Seacliff. That’s the girl that did those dabby Rex Whistlerish posters for the Board of Trade. She says she wants to do some solid work from the model. Quite true, she does; but I rather fancy she’s on the hunt.
(3) Basil Pilgrim. If I’m not mistaken, Basil is Valmai’s quarry. He’s an Hon., you know, and old Lord Pilgrim is doddering to the grave. He’s the ‘Peer that became a Primitive Methodist’ a few years ago—you remember. The papers were full of it. He comes to light with the odd spot of hell-fire on the subject of birth-control, every now and then. Basil’s got six elder sisters, and Lady Pilgrim died when he was born, so we don’t know what she thought about it. I hardly think Valmai Seacliff will please the old gentleman. Basil’s painting nearly drove him into the Salvation Army, I fancy.
(4) Watt Hatchett. This is new blood. He’s an Australian youth I found working in Suva. Very promising stuff. Simplified form and swinging lines. He’s as keen as mustard, and was practically living on bananas and cheek when I ran into him. His voice is like the crashing together of old tin cans, and he can talk of nothing but his work, his enthusiasms, and his dislikes. I’m afraid he’ll get on their nerves and they may put him on the defensive. Still, his work is good.
(5) Cedric Malmsley. He’s got a job illustrating some de luxe edition of medieval romances, and wants to get down to it with a model handy. It ought to work in all right. I told him to get in touch with you. I hear he’s grown a blond beard that parts in the middle and wears sandals —Cedric, not the beard.
(6) Wolf Garcia, I had a letter from Garcia. No money, but a commission to do Comedy and Tragedy in marble for the new cinema in Westminster, so will I let him stay with me and do the clay model? No stamp on the envelope and written in conte chalk on lavatory paper. He will probably turn up long before you get this letter. Let him use the studio, will you, but look out, if you’ve got Sonia there. Garcia’s got the use of someone’s studio in London after the 20th, and hopes to have a cast ready by then, so it won’t be for long. Now don’t