LITMIR.BIZ

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against the grain?”

      Now Pratt smiled.

      “You must hate meeting pieces of wood like Bultin and me,” he observed.

      “Nonsense—nobody’s wood!” retorted Nadine. “Some people build wooden walls around themselves, that’s all. Bultin does, certainly.”

      “Yes, I agree. He’s chained himself inside in case he should get out and collapse. But—me?”

      “Something could move you.”

      “What?”

      “I’ve no idea. But I couldn’t. That’s why I don’t think I’ll pawn my pearls, thank you. Any one who paints me must be an out-and-out idealist.”

      “An idealist is merely another sort of man who builds a wall round his passions.”

      “And whose passions are the most ardent when the wall goes?” replied Nadine. “Yes, I know all about that! But he begins with a kind heart, and I only allow artists with kind hearts to paint me. I’ve seen your Twentieth-Century Madonna!”

      “I should never have thought you feared the truth, Nadine,” reproved Pratt.

      “I don’t. But no artist can paint the whole truth. He just paints his half—and the other half can’t answer back from the canvas. The half I fear is your half—all by its little lonesome!”

      “Touché,” murmured Pratt, “although I am not admitting there is any other half.”

      “Didn’t you paint the other half when you were twenty? I remember a picture called ‘Song of Youth.’”

      “My God, spare me!” he winced. “Must that ghastly song follow me to the grave? And anyway,” he added, “how on earth do you remember that ancient atrocity? From your appearance, your memory shouldn’t take you back so far.”

      “I’m in shadow.”

      “Kindly step out of it.”

      She hesitated, then did so.

      “I repeat my astonishment,” said Pratt, staring at her. “You look twenty yourself! And now, I suppose, you will charge me with gallantry? No, I couldn’t stand that! Not immediately after the resuscitation of my ‘Song of Youth!’ Excuse me, before I become utterly whitewashed!”

      “I’ll excuse you,” answered Nadine, throwing her cigarette away, “but I don’t think I’m exactly the kind of person to whitewash anybody.”

      “Thank God!” said Pratt devoutly.

      He watched her pass back to the house, then stepped on to the dark lawn. It was thirty strides across. Beyond, a flagged path led between bushes to the studio.

      As he reached the building he felt in his pocket for the key. There had been no afternoon sitting that day, for horses had supplanted canvas; and there was not much chance of a sitting on the morrow, either. A stag was to be routed out of Flensham Forest, to perform its entertaining death-run. Well, he could add a few touches to the picture by himself, and finish the thing on Sunday. He’d have to get it out of the way by then, if Ruth Rowe’s was to follow.

      “Where the devil—?” he murmured.

      Then he saw the key in the door, and recalled that he must have left it there after his visit with Mr. Rowe before tea. It was then that the picture of Ruth had been decided on.

      He turned the key and entered the large room. Ruth’s picture would be dull compared with Anne’s. There was little to paint about Ruth. There were fathomless depths to reveal in Anne. He knew them. He could pierce through right down to the bed. Yes, he liked this picture—there was something definitely challenging in it. “No whitewashing, my child—we’ll show ’em—a bit of real collaboration. As a rule, I’m the only one that understands, but you understand, too. That’s what makes it!”

      And Earnshaw’s presence here this week-end added its touch of ironic justification. Anne could sell her soul, like the rest of them—or the mythical thing that was called a soul!

      He switched on the light, and turned to the picture of the Honourable Anne Aveling.

      It was almost obliterated by a long, broad smudge of paint. The smudge, crimson lake, began at Anne’s right ear, and descended diagonally across the dark-green riding habit.

      “Something could move you!” Nadine’s words screamed through his ears, as though repeated by an invisible loud speaker turned full on. He found himself trembling. He fought against vulnerable emotion.

      “Somebody’s gone mad here,” he thought. “All in a moment.”

      He recalled the moment when he had seen red in the passage outside his bedroom. Yes… it could happen.

      He turned away from the canvas, to control himself. He stared round the studio. On another easel was a large painting of a stag, done by Anne herself. It was not good, saving for the terrible, dull fear she had somehow planted in the stag’s eyes—a fear she should not have known about, since she hunted. He concentrated on the stag’s eyes for a few seconds, then turned his own eyes back to the ruined canvas. The fit of trembling had passed.

      “Queer game,” he said aloud. “I wonder whether I shall ever have the pleasure of painting the person who did this?”

      He glanced at his watch. Five minutes to seven. He left the studio abruptly, locked the door, and put the key in his pocket. A spent cigarette-end loomed dully from the ground. He picked it up.

      Some one was moving in the path. He dashed forward and grabbed. Sheer instinct had caused the sudden action. A hand banged him in the chest, and he staggered. When he had recovered, he was alone.

      As he came to the end of the flagged path a figure met him off the edge of the lawn.

      “Good-evening,” said the figure.

      Pratt regarded the face that rose abruptly before his, and smiled.

      “Good-evening, Mr. Chater,” he answered.

      “That’s a good guess,” replied Chater. “We’ve not met.”

      “No, that’s how I guessed,” responded Pratt. “Process of elimination. You came on the 5.56, didn’t you?”

      “That’s right.”

      “You’ve not been here before?”

      “No, my first visit. Rather a nice place, isn’t it? I’m just having a stroll round.”

      “I’m afraid you won’t see much in this darkness.”

      “Enough to get one’s bearings. Where does this lead? Is that building over there the stables?”

      He was gazing along the flagged path.

      “No, that’s a studio,” answered Pratt.

      “Oh, yes, there’s an artist here, isn’t there?”

      “Well—he calls himself an artist. Are you interested in art, by any chance?”

      “Me? Not particularly. Who’s the fellow?”

      “What fellow?”

      “The artist?”

      “Leicester Pratt.”

      “Oh, Leicester Pratt! He’s rather the craze just now, isn’t he?”

      “Some people like his work.”

      “And some don’t?”

      “They all pay big prices for it.”

      “Then I don’t suppose he worries! Is he painting anybody here?”

      Pratt paused for a second before replying.

      “I have just been looking at a picture he is painting of somebody here.”

      “Good?”

      “He thinks so.”

      “Who’s it

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