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Mrs. Van Slyke had been a model. Of what? Herself? Hendrik's lover? Women in general? It was really the painting that was the model. Mrs. Van Slyke had modeled for the model. Patrick's mind began to spin. He continued his line of thought. Mathematics was a tool for making models. So was painting. Science and art had that in common.
The Pioneer Guards disbanded shortly after the war broke out, and many of its members were officers in the Union army, although two or three of them stole away and joined the Confederate forces, one of them serving on Lee's staff during the entire war. Col. Wilkin Col. King, Col. Farrell, Capt. Coates, Capt. Van Slyke, Capt. Western, Lieut. Zernberg and Lieut.
Not less fatuous at heart, in truth, was he, than the unfortunate Van Slyke. But his manner was perfection as he saluted her and bade the caddy build their tees. The girl, however, was now plainly vexed. Her mouth had drawn a trifle tight and the tilt of her chin was determined. Her eyes were far from soft, as she surveyed this delinquent fiancé.
"Be right there," Hendrik said. They walked side by side to the main house. Patrick felt himself looking at Mrs. Van Slyke differently; he was seeing her partly through Hendrik's eyes, as Hendrik had painted her. She was more female. "Patrick asked what art is," Hendrik explained. "Are you clear on that now?" Mrs. Van Slyke asked as she took the empty bottles from their hands.
The next morning, in the News Shop, Parker Ives introduced Patrick to Wilson. "Willy, you and Patrick get started on the Van Slyke house." He rubbed his forehead. "She's intense about her roses; better cover them. The lilacs, too. I'll be around later with more primer." "Ya, Boss. Let's go, Patrick." Wilson was short and muscular, balding, with a thick black mustache and a glass eye.
Now, drunk though he was, he sat there at the wheel, steady enough so long as he held on to it and only by the redness of his face and a certain glassy look in his eye, betrayed the fact of his intoxication. The girl, busy with her farewells as the car drew up for her, had not observed him. At the last moment Van Slyke waved a foppish hand at her, and smirked adieux.
"Look there," he said, pointing at a wall covered with charcoal drawings of a nude Julie Van Slyke, fifteen years younger. "Those are studies I made before I did the painting. You can see how I kept circling around the central idea, this line here." He moved one hand through the air as though he were stroking her hip. "Once I got it right, it was mostly a matter of color.
"He did a good painting of a boxer, once. They got married." "He married the boxer?" "Smart ass." Wilson shook his head. "Then he slowed down know what I mean?" They considered Mrs. Van Slyke who had Parker more or less pinned against the lilacs. "My woman gets in the way . . . " He snorted. "I don't even have a studio, paint right in the living room." "You a painter?" "All the time, man.
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