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Updated: June 15, 2025
The proper study of mankind is books." "I sometimes think that it may be," said Denis; he was wondering if Anne and Gombauld were still dancing together. "Instead of which," said Mr. Wimbush, with a sigh, "I must go and see if all is well on the dancing-floor." They got up and began to walk slowly towards the white glare.
Scogan, bolt upright in an attitude of metallic rigidity that contrasted strangely with that fluid grace of hers which even in stillness suggested a soft movement. Gombauld ceased talking, and Mary, flushed and outraged, opened her mouth to refute him. But she was too slow. Before she could utter a word Mr. Scogan's fluty voice had pronounced the opening phrases of a discourse.
You might just as well say that a plate of strawberries and cream deliberately lures you on to feel greedy. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred women are as passive and innocent as the strawberries and cream." "Well, all I can say is that this must be the hundredth case," said Gombauld, without looking up. Anne shrugged her shoulders and gave vent to a sigh.
The picture was more than half finished. Gombauld had been at work all the morning on the figure of the man, and now he was taking a rest the time to smoke a cigarette. Tilting back his chair till it touched the wall, he looked thoughtfully at his canvas. He was pleased, and at the same time he was desolated. In itself, the thing was good; he knew it.
What could Gombauld be up to? She had felt so safe in admiring his work before. But now she didn't know what to think. It was very difficult, very difficult. "There's rather a lot of chiaroscuro, isn't there?" she ventured at last, and inwardly congratulated herself on having found a critical formula so gentle and at the same time so penetrating. "There is," Gombauld agreed.
"After all," he said to himself "after all, Gombauld is better looking than I, more entertaining, more confident; and, besides, he's already somebody and I'm still only potential..." "Everything that ever gets done in this world is done by madmen," Mr. Scogan went on. Denis tried not to listen, but the tireless insistence of Mr. Scogan's discourse gradually compelled his attention.
My life, Knockespotch said, is not so long that I can afford to spend precious hours writing or reading descriptions of middle-class interiors. He said again, 'I am tired of seeing the human mind bogged in a social plenum; I prefer to paint it in a vacuum, freely and sportively bombinating." "I say," said Gombauld, "Knockespotch was a little obscure sometimes, wasn't he?" "He was," Mr.
"May I have a look at what you've been painting?" she had the courage to say at last. Gombauld had only half smoked his cigarette; in any case he wouldn't begin work again till he had finished. He would give her the five minutes that separated him from the bitter end. "This is the best place to see it from," he said. Mary looked at the picture for some time without saying anything.
True, his meridional heredity was a little disquieting; but at least he was a serious worker, and it was with his work that she would associate herself. And Denis? After all, what WAS Denis? A dilettante, an amateur... Gombauld had annexed for his painting-room a little disused granary that stood by itself in a green close beyond the farm-yard.
"Gombauld has more talent," Mary began, "but he is less civilised than Denis." Mary's pronunciation of "civilised" gave the word a special and additional significance. She uttered it meticulously, in the very front of her mouth, hissing delicately on the opening sibilant. So few people were civilised, and they, like the first-rate works of art, were mostly French.
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