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Updated: June 30, 2025
She threw her arm over her bare shoulder to hide it and shrank back against the door not daring to raise her eyes again. She was trembling violently. Beneath her downcast lashes she could see the door of Chauvin's studio, and suddenly she determined to fly there for shelter, as had been her original intention. She started but Paul held her fast. Flamby hid her face against his coat.
Flamby had stood up, too, and now Paul held her by the shoulders looking at her charming downcast face. "We are friends, are we not, little Flamby?" Flamby glanced up swiftly. "Yes," she said. "Thank you for thinking about me."
Orlando James came in, standing just by the doorway, one hand resting upon his hip whilst he gnawed the nails of the other with his fine white teeth. He wore the colours of a regiment with which he had served for a time, and a silver badge on the right lapel of his tweed jacket. Presently, perceiving Flamby, he advanced to the table at which she was seated with Don.
The brasswork of the many doors was brightly polished and all the visible appointments of the miniature suites spoke of refined good taste. "It's very quiet," said Flamby. "Yes. You see most of the people who live here are out during the day." "Please where do I live?" "This way," cried Don cheerily, conducting her up the tiled steps to the gallery. "Number twenty-three."
"Dulce est desipere," replied Flamby, "but I am not jesting. Oh, that beastly Latin! Do you remember when I quoted Portia to you? It makes me go all goosey to think of some of the awful things I have said to people." "You have said one thing, Flamby, which I must request you to explain," said Don gravely.
Quite contentedly now, the hare crouched, rubbing its blunt nose against her hands and peering furtively up into her face and quickly down again. Flamby studied the little creature with an oddly critical eye. "Your funny ears go this way and that way," she murmured, raising one hand and drawing imaginary lines in the air to illustrate her words; "so and so.
If you love Portia you will love Ellen Terry. I suppose her Portia is no more than a memory of the old Lyceum days, but it is a golden memory, Flamby. Ellen Terry is at the Coliseum. Shall we go to-night? Perhaps the Aunt would join us." "Oh!" said Flamby, her eyes alight with excitement; but the one word was sufficient. "Right!" cried Don. "Now for Liberty's."
"I had hoped, Flamby, that you had done as I once asked you to do and dropped Orlando James." "I did," said Flamby quickly and continuing to caress the spaniel. "I wrote to Don the very night you told me to." "And I am sure that Don agreed with me." "He did, yes. But Don knows I still pretend to be friends with James." Paul stood still, facing her, but she did not look up. "Don knows this?"
Furthermore, it represented a living animal, soft of fleece and inviting a caress and was drawn with almost insolent ease. Paul looked into the girl's watching eyes. "You are an artist, Flamby," he said; "and like all artists you are unduly critical of your work." A rich colour glowed through the tan upon Flamby's cheeks and she was aware of a delicious little nervous thrill.
It was no mere reshuffling of the Tarot of the Initiates, but in many respects was a new gospel, and because that which is unknown is thought to be wonderful, in questing the source of Paul's inspiration Flamby constantly found her thoughts to be focussed upon Jules Thessaly.
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