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Updated: June 15, 2025
"So like a man again!" said Anne. "It's always the same old story about the woman tempting the man. The woman lures, fascinates, invites; and man noble man, innocent man falls a victim. My poor Gombauld! Surely you're not going to sing that old song again. It's so unintelligent, and I always thought you were a man of sense." "Thanks," said Gombauld. "Be a little objective," Anne went on.
"Good!" said Anne; and turning to Gombauld, "You must be our lightning artist," she said. "'Your portrait for a shilling in five minutes." "It's a pity I'm not Ivor," said Gombauld, with a laugh. "I could throw in a picture of their Auras for an extra sixpence." Mary flushed. "Nothing is to be gained," she said severely, "by speaking with levity of serious subjects.
He looked down from his window; there they were, Anne and Gombauld, talking, laughing together. They crossed the courtyard in front, and passed out of sight through the gate in the right-hand wall. That was the way to the green close and the granary; she was going to sit for him again.
In the background a dancing couple, recognisable as Gombauld and Anne. Beneath, the legend: "Fable of the Wallflower and the Sour Grapes." Fascinated and horrified, Denis pored over the drawing. It was masterful. A mute, inglorious Rouveyre appeared in every one of those cruelly clear lines.
Do you agree?" she asked, with a final gasp. Gombauld dropped his cigarette end and trod on it. "Tschuplitski's finished painting," he said. "I've finished my cigarette. But I'm going on painting." And, advancing towards her, he put his arm round her shoulders and turned her round, away from the picture. Mary looked up at him; her hair swung back, a soundless bell of gold.
Scogan, to begin with; but perhaps he's rather too much of a genuine antique. And there are Gombauld and Denis. Shall we say that the choice is limited to the last two?" Mary nodded. "I think we had better," she said, and then hesitated, with a certain air of embarrassment. "What is it?" "I was wondering," said Mary, with a gasp, "whether they really were unattached.
Replying automatically to its stimulus, she moved forward. "Be careful going down the ladder," said Gombauld once more. She was careful. The door closed behind her and she was alone in the little green close. She walked slowly back through the farmyard; she was pensive. Henry Wimbush brought down with him to dinner a budget of printed sheets loosely bound together in a cardboard portfolio.
It was an intolerable thought. "Shall we go and pay a call on Gombauld?" he suggested carelessly. "It would be amusing to see what he's doing now." He laughed inwardly to think how furious Gombauld would be when he saw them arriving. Gombauld was by no means so furious at their apparition as Denis had hoped and expected he would be.
But that something he was after, that something that would be so terrific if only he could catch it had he caught it? Would he ever catch it? Three little taps rat, tat, tat! Surprised, Gombauld turned his eyes towards the door. Nobody ever disturbed him while he was at work; it was one of the unwritten laws. "Come in!" he called.
After all, what am I dangling about for, except to be painted?" Gombauld made a noise like a growl. "You're awful," he said, with conviction. "Why do you ask me to come and stay here? Why do you tell me you'd like me to paint your portrait?" "For the simple reasons that I like you at least, when you're in a good temper and that I think you're a good painter."
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