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Updated: May 31, 2025
It's going to be my masterpiece." "Our next picture is always going to be our masterpiece," murmured Flamby wisely, taking an Egyptian cigarette from the Japanese cabinet on the table. "But I think I can claim to know what I'm talking about, Flamby. It means that I regard you as one of the prettiest girls in London."
"I was thinking about the furniture," said Flamby. "Eh!" cried Don "furniture? Yes, of course; upon more mature consideration I perceive distinctly that some few items of that kind will be indispensable. Furniture. Quite so." "You hadn't thought of that?" "No I admit it had slipped my memory.
"I was scared, so I came out." "Scared? Of what?" "Don't know. Just scared. Mother is over at Mrs. Fawkes', and it's not likely I was going with her." "Why not?" "She hates me," explained Flamby, with brief simplicity. "But why should she hate you?" "Don't know," said Flamby, busily burrowing a little hole in the road with the heel of her left shoe.
The elfin light danced in her eyes again, and in this country damsel who used the language of an obsolete vassalage he saw one who mocked at his manorial rights and cared naught for king or commoner. Beyond doubt, Sergeant Duveen had been a strange man, and strangely had he trained his daughter. "May I see your drawing?" Flamby hesitated.
Don't you think it may be just as well, dear?" "I don't know," said Flamby, looking up slowly. "I'm not quite sure that I do. Has your furniture arrived, dear?" "Not yet, Aunt," replied Don on Flamby's behalf. "Most of it will have to be purchased, and I thought you might give Flamby some sort of a notion what to buy. Then we could trot off up town and get things." "How delightful.
"You are a tantalising little devil," said James, his dull brain seeking vainly a clue to the cause of Flamby's obduracy. Flamby, meanwhile maturing her plan, made the next move. "Is the Keats picture to be more important than The Circassian?" she asked naively. "Of course," James replied, believing that at last a clue was his. "I have told you that it will be my masterpiece."
"It isn't yellow: it's a delicious sort of old-ivory velvet which I am just itching to paint." "Then why don't you?" inquired Flamby, composedly settling herself in a nest of cushions on the floor. "Because you will never pose for me." "You have never asked me." "Why I asked you only a few days ago to pose for my next big picture." Flamby sipped hot tea and looked up at James scornfully.
Trundled by the regretful porter the grip and the trunk were borne out into the drizzle, Don and Flamby following; a taxi-cab was found, and Don gave the address of The Hostel. Then, allowing Flamby no time for comment, he began talking at once about the place for which they were bound. "Mr.
If only because her fault was chargeable on one of his own kin he should have striven with might and main to help Flamby. The fact that she was daughter of the man who had saved Don's life at peril of his own redoubled the sanctity of the charge. And how had he acquitted himself of his stewardship? Pitifully.
But despite the bravado, she was half fearful, and therefore some of her inherent woodcraft deserted her, so much so that not noting a tuft of ferns which uprose almost at her heels, she stepped quickly back, stumbled, and Fawkes had his arms about her, holding her close. "Now what can you do?" he sneered, his crafty face very close to hers. "This," breathed Flamby, her colour departing again.
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