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"You are an artist I heard that from the concierge." "Yes," said Gethryn, "I think I may claim the title tonight." And then he told her about the Salon. She listened and brightened with sympathy. Then she grew silent. "Do you paint landscapes?" "From models?" "Of course," he answered, still more drily. "Draped," she persisted. "No." "I hate models!" she cried out, almost fiercely.
Gethryn rose roughly and, crowding past the man, descended the steps and, entering the car below, sat down there. "Butor!" roared the butcher. "Cochon! He trod on my foot!" "He is an English pig!" sneered the woman, reaching for the newspaper. "Let me read it now," she whined. "Hands off," growled the man, "I'll read you what I think good." "But it's my paper." "It's mine now shut up."
'Very well. I'll play. It's rather rot, though. 'No, it's all right, really. It's only that you've got into a groove. You're so used to doing the heavy martyr, that the sudden change has knocked you out rather. Come and have an ice before the shop shuts. So Gethryn came once more into the team, and travelled down to Charchester with the others. And at this point a painful alternative faces me.
The non-appearance of his name on the notice-board came as no surprise to Gethryn. He had had the advantage of listening to Norris's views on the subject. But when Marriott grasped the facts of the case, he went to Norris and raved. Norris, as is right and proper in the captain of a School team when the wisdom of his actions is called into question, treated him with no respect whatever.
Braith, who always hated to see Clifford look like that, turned to Gethryn. "Favorite of yours on the program." Rex looked. "Oh," he cried, "Belle Helene." Next moment he flushed, and feeling as if the others saw it, crimsoned all the deeper. This escaped Clifford, however, who was otherwise occupied. But he joined in the conversation, hoping for an argument.
It is a naive way models have of appropriating work in which, truly enough, they have no small share. They often speak of "our pictures" and "our success." "How do you like it?" asked the artist, absently. "Good," she shrugged her shoulders "but not truth." "Right again," murmured Gethryn. "I prefer Dagnan," added the pretty critic. "So do I rather!" laughed Gethryn. "Or you," said the girl.
Gethryn was the head of Leicester's this term, vice Reynolds departed, and Marriott, who was second man up, shared a study with him. Leicester's had not a good name at Beckford, in spite of the fact that it was generally in the running for the cricket and football cups.
Clifford rose, dropped a piece of charcoal down on his neighbor's neck, and stepping across Thaxton's easel, walked over to Gethryn. "Rex, have you heard the latest?" "No." "The Ministry has fallen again, and the Place de la Concorde is filled with people yelling, A bas la Republique! Vive le General Boulanger!" Gethryn looked serious. Clifford went on, speaking low.
She laughed hatefully, but preserved her pretense of calm, walked to the door, and as she reached it swung round and made an insulting gesture to Gethryn. "You! I will remember you!" The door slammed and a key rattled in the next box. Clinging to Gethryn, Yvonne passed down the long corridor to the vestibule, while Elliott and Rowden silently gathered up the masks and opera glasses.
"I only learned this morning," she went on, after a minute, " who sat beside me all that night and bathed my arm, and gave me cooling drinks." Gethryn colored. "There was no one else to take care of you. I sent for my friend, Doctor Ducrot, but he was out of town. Then Dr Bouvier promised to come, and didn't. The concierge was ill herself I could not leave you alone.
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