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He pointed to an object I had only partially observed: a broad-faced burly woman, of about forty-five years of age, in an eccentric dress of Japanese silks, standing on the model-throne between two lay figures. 'Good heavens! I exclaimed, 'why, she's alive. 'An' kickin', sir, said a voice that was at once strident and unctuous. Her build was that of a Dutch fisher-woman.
He mounted the model-throne, sank into the wide chair, and placed his hands luxuriously on its arms. His general pose mattered little: she had not gone beyond his head and shoulders. Hortense stared. Would he push her on the moment into the right mood? Would he have her call into instant readiness her colors and brushes?
The minutes went by and Ruth made no movement. He began to grow absorbed in his work. He lost count of time. Ruth ceased to be Ruth, ceased even to be flesh and blood. She was just something he was painting. "Kirk!" The sharp suddenness of the cry brought him to his feet, quivering. Ruth was swaying on the model-throne. Her eyes were staring straight before her and her face was twisted with fear.
I'll be the best model you ever had. I won't move a muscle, and I'll stand there till I drop." "You'll do nothing of the kind. You'll come right down off that model-throne the instant you feel the least bit tired." The picture which Kirk was painting was one of those pictures which thousands of young artists are working on unceasingly every day.
Possibly, if the thing became too pensive and soulful altogether, he might give it some title suggestive of the absent lover at the bull-fight "The Toreador's Bride" or something of that sort. The only point on which he was solid was that it was to strike the Spanish note; and to this end he gave Ruth a costume of black and orange and posed her on the model-throne with a rose in her hair.
Morrow after a couple of hours, pulling at his pointed gray beard and speaking enthusiastically in his soft artist-voice. "Splendid!" said untidy, handsome Mrs. Morrow, sitting down on the model-throne to view her own work the better. "But she must be ready to drop, aren't you, Joy, dear? You aren't used to it." But Joy shook her head. "I'm not tired a bit," she said truthfully.
As she is in love with his friend, the performance is eminently proper, quite platonic. The Laird advises Trilby to give up sitting for "the altogether"; yet Du Maurier assures us that "nothing is so chaste as nudity" that "Venus herself, as she drops her garments and steps on to the model-throne, leaves behind her on the floor every weapon by which she can pierce to the grosser passions of men."
Beside this chair stood the smaller table, polished, and upon it blue and white tea things. Near the large window stood the other table, with Stefan's palette, paint tubes, and brushes in orderly array, and a plain chair beside it, while centered at that end was the model-throne. Opposite the fireplace the divan fronted the wall, obscured by Mary's steamer rug and green deck cushion.
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