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Updated: June 15, 2025
Poor boy! He was very sweet. She became somewhat pensive. Gombauld painted on with fury. The restlessness of an unsatisfied desire, which, before, had distracted his mind, making work impossible, seemed now to have converted itself into a kind of feverish energy. When it was finished, he told himself, the portrait would be diabolic.
Scogan filled his glass, passed on the decanter, and, leaning back in his chair, looked about him for a moment in silence. The conversation rippled idly round him, but he disregarded it; he was smiling at some private joke. Gombauld noticed his smile. "What's amusing you?" he asked. "I was just looking at you all, sitting round this table," said Mr. Scogan. "Are we as comic as all that?"
Within, there lingered a faint smell of dust and cobwebs; and the narrow shaft of sunlight that came slanting in at every hour of the day through one of the little windows was always alive with silvery motes. Here Gombauld worked, with a kind of concentrated ferocity, during six or seven hours of each day. He was pursuing something new, something terrific, if only he could catch it.
"Not at all, my dear Gombauld," Mr. Scogan hastened to explain. "As a lover or a dipsomaniac, I've no doubt of your being a most fascinating specimen. But as a combiner of forms, you must honestly admit it, you're a bore." "I entirely disagree with you," exclaimed Mary. She was somehow always out of breath when she talked. And her speech was punctuated by little gasps.
Still more, at the moment, he envied Gombauld his looks, his vitality, his easy confidence of manner. Was it surprising that Anne should like him? Like him? it might even be something worse, Denis reflected bitterly, as he walked at Priscilla's side down the long grass terrace. Between Gombauld and Mr.
Mary was pleased; he accepted her criticism; it was a serious discussion. She put her head on one side and screwed up her eyes. "I think it's awfully fine," she said. "But of course it's a little too...too...trompe-l'oeil for my taste." She looked at Gombauld, who made no response, but continued to smoke, gazing meditatively all the time at his picture. Mary went on gaspingly.
Yes, he was positively glad to see them. "Come in, come in," he called out hospitably. Followed by Mr. Scogan, Denis climbed the little ladder and stepped over the threshold. He looked suspiciously from Gombauld to his sitter, and could learn nothing from the expression of their faces except that they both seemed pleased to see the visitors.
The mouth was compressed, and on either side of it two tiny wrinkles had formed themselves in her cheeks. An infinity of slightly malicious amusement lurked in those little folds, in the puckers about the half-closed eyes, in the eyes themselves, bright and laughing between the narrowed lids. The preliminary greetings spoken, Denis found an empty chair between Gombauld and Jenny and sat down.
"For the simple reason" Gombauld mimicked her voice "that you want me to make love to you and, when I do, to have the amusement of running away." Anne threw back her head and laughed. "So you think it amuses me to have to evade your advances! So like a man! If you only knew how gross and awful and boring men are when they try to make love and you don't want them to make love!
"If there's any opportunity of playing the drums..." she began. "But of course," said Anne, "there's any amount of opportunity. We'll put you down definitely for the drums. That's the lot," she added. "And a very good lot too," said Gombauld. "I look forward to my Bank Holiday. It ought to be gay." "It ought indeed," Mr Scogan assented. "But you may rest assured that it won't be.
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