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Updated: June 15, 2025
There was no hope of getting so much as a word in edgeways; Mary had perforce to resign herself. "Even your eloquence, my dear Gombauld," he was saying "even your eloquence must prove inadequate to reconvert the world to a belief in the delights of mere multiplication.
But the sight of Anne and Gombauld swimming past Anne with her eyes almost shut and sleeping, as it were, on the sustaining wings of movement and music dissipated these preoccupations. Male and female created He them...There they were, Anne and Gombauld, and a hundred couples more all stepping harmoniously together to the old tune of Male and Female created He them.
It was Anne's face but her face as it would be, utterly unillumined by the inward lights of thought and emotion. It was the lazy, expressionless mask which was sometimes her face. The portrait was terribly like; and at the same time it was the most malicious of lies. Yes, it would be diabolic when it was finished, Gombauld decided; he wondered what she would think of it.
Forms of a breathing, living reality emerged from darkness, built themselves up into compositions as luminously simple and single as a mathematical idea. He thought of the "Call of Matthew," of "Peter Crucified," of the "Lute players," of "Magdalen." He had the secret, that astonishing ruffian, he had the secret! And now Gombauld was after it, in hot pursuit.
It was the baa-baa business again. Why was he born with a different face? Why WAS he? Gombauld had a face of brass one of those old, brazen rams that thumped against the walls of cities till they fell. He was born with a different face a woolly face. The music stopped. The single harmonious creature broke in two.
If you could only see yourselves through our eyes!" Gombauld picked up his palette and brushes and attacked his canvas with the ardour of irritation. "I suppose you'll be saying next that you didn't start the game, that it was I who made the first advances, and that you were the innocent victim who sat still and never did anything that could invite or allure me on."
"A letter came for you by the second post," she said. "I thought it might be important, so I brought it out to you." Her eyes, her childish face were luminously candid as she handed him the letter. Gombauld looked at the envelope and put it in his pocket unopened. "Luckily," he said, "it isn't at all important. Thanks very much all the same." There was a silence; Mary felt a little uncomfortable.
"It's perfectly untrue about Denis," she said indignantly. "I never dreamt of playing what you beautifully call the same game with him." Recovering her calm, she added in her ordinary cooing voice and with her exacerbating smile, "You've become very protective towards poor Denis all of a sudden." "I have," Gombauld replied, with a gravity that was somehow a little too solemn.
Poor dears! no wonder." She was sitting sideways in a low, wooden chair. Her right elbow rested on the back of the chair and she supported her cheek on her hand. Her long, slender body drooped into curves of a lazy grace. She was smiling, and she looked at Gombauld through half-closed eyes. "Damn you!" Gombauld repeated, and stamped his foot again.
I go on cultivating my old stale daily self in the resigned spirit with which a bank clerk performs from ten till six his daily task. A holiday, indeed! I'm sorry for you, Gombauld, if you still look forward to having a holiday." Gombauld shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps," he said, "my standards aren't as elevated as yours.
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