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Updated: May 31, 2025
"Perhaps I thought of her as Isis once long ago." Now it was Paul who hesitated and wondered, his respect for Flamby and for the complex personality who had tutored her growing apace. "But in London they must hate the moon," she added, and the tone betokened one of her swift changes of mood.
Lithely as one of the wild things with whom she was half kin and who seemed to recognise the kinship, Flamby came to her feet, shaking off the restraining hand, turned and confronted the man who had crept up behind her. He was an undersized, foxy fellow, dressed as a gamekeeper and carrying a fowling-piece under one arm. His small eyes regarded her through narrowed lids.
Don stood up, and walking across the room looked out of the window into the quadrangle. The story of the Charleswood photographs, which Flamby had related with many a pause and hesitance, had seemed to cast upon the room a shadow the shadow of a wicked hypocrite. Both were silent for several minutes. "And you are sure that Paul has seen these photographs?" said Don.
He was painting Yvonne's portrait, as Flamby had pointed out to Chauvin when Chauvin had uttered veiled warnings against his neighbour. "I know, my dear kid," Chauvin had replied, peering over his horn-rimmed spectacles; "but Mrs. Paul Mario can walk in where angels fear to tread. She is Mrs. Paul Mario, my dear kid, and if Mr. Paul Mario approves it is nobody else's business.
"Then I wrote and asked if you minded my seeing him occasionally for a special purpose, and you wrote back that you had every confidence in my discretion, which pleased me very much. Now I suppose you want to know what the special purpose was?" "Not unless you wish to tell me, Flamby." "I do wish to tell you," said Flamby slowly.
He was inspired; anger and sorrow drove him remorselessly on and a chill finger seemed to touch Flamby's heart as she listened; for resignation and finality informed his speech. "Each human soul must fight its way out of the night of the valley, Flamby, before it can pass the gates of dawn. Each error is a step in the path and there are steps right to the top.
"Why," he asked, "should you be so afraid of Sir Jacques?" "He's dead!" replied Flamby, an elfin light of mischief kindling in her eyes; yet she was by no means at her ease. "And what made you mistake me for him?" "Your voice." "Ah," said Paul, to whom others had remarked on this resemblance; "but you had no cause to fear him? alive, I mean."
Unfortunately for his chance of success, Sir Jacques had also been a graduate of this school of artistic libertinage. "There is something selfish about a girl who keeps her beauty all to herself when it might delight future generations," he said, taking the newly filled cup from Flamby. "Besides, it really is a compliment, kid, to ask you to pose for a big thing like The Dreaming Keats.
His restrained passion was electric and it acted upon Flamby in a curious way and seemed to set her heart singing. When Martin returned to report that a cab waited, Paul walked out under the arch to the street and having placed Flamby in the cab, he held her hand for a moment and their glances met.
I wish," said Flamby, her voice sunken almost to a whisper, "I wish I could be as brave ..." She sat down on the settee, biting her lower lip and striving hard to retain composure. "You are very brave indeed, and very loyal," answered Paul, but he did not approach her where she sat.
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