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Updated: June 14, 2025
No one was ever more astonished than Lady St. Craye. Quite natural, the astonishment. Not overdone by so much as a hair's breadth. So he told her all about it, and she twisted her long topaz chain and listened with exactly the right shade of interest. He told her what Miss Voscoe had said at least most of it. "And I worry about Temple," he said; "like any school boy, I worry.
She blushed sometimes and stamped her foot when she remembered those meetings in the summer mornings, her tremors, her heart-beats. And oh, the "drivel" she had written in her diary! "Girls ought never to be allowed to lead that 'sheltered home life," she said to Miss Voscoe, "with nothing real in it. It makes your mind all swept and garnished and then you hurry to fill it up with rubbish."
"Fiddle-de-dee," said Miss Voscoe to her companions' shocked comments, "they were raised in the same village, or something. He used to give her peanuts when he was in short jackets, and she used to halve her candies with him. Friend of childhood's hour, that's all. And besides he's one of the presidents of our Sketch Club."
"Oh, he's all right; fine and dandy!" replied Miss Voscoe. "He's a big man, too, in his own line. Not the kind you expect to see knocking about at a students' cremerie. Does he give you lessons?" "He did at home," said Betty. "Take care he doesn't teach you what's the easiest thing in creation to learn about a man." "What's that?" Betty did not like to have to ask the question.
Its light poured out and lay like a yellow carpet on the terrace, and lent to the foliage beyond that indescribable air of festivity, of light-heartedness that green leaves can always borrow from artificial light. "I'll just see if there are any letters," she told herself. "There always might be: from Aunt Julia or Miss Voscoe or someone." She went along the little passage that led to the stairs.
"On the contrary," said Vernon, "Miss Voscoe is everybody almost!" "I'm the nobody who can't get a word in edgeways anyhow," she said. "What I've been trying to say ever since I was born pretty near is that what this class wants is a competent Professor, some bully top-of-the-tree artist, to come and pull our work all to pieces and wipe his boots on the bits. Mr.
"What's come to me that I should play the goat like this?" Vernon asked himself, as he raised his head from Temple's broad shoulder. Then he met Betty's laughing eyes, and no longer regretted his assumption of that difficult role. "It's settled then. Tuesdays and Fridays, four to six," he said. "At last I am to be " "The light of the harem," said Miss Voscoe.
You go home and spend a quiet evening and think it all over." Vernon went off laughing, and wondering why he didn't hate Miss Voscoe. He did not laugh long. He sat in his studio, musing till it was too late to go out to dine. Then he found some biscuits and sherry remnants of preparations for the call of a picture dealer ate and drank, and spent the evening in the way recommended by Miss Voscoe.
"It's lovely," said the other woman, with an appreciation quite genuine. "What a pity you can't always wear it like that!" "It's long," said Betty disparagingly, "but the colour's horrid. What Miss Voscoe calls Boy colour." "Boy colour?" "Oh, just nothing in particular. Mousy." "If you had golden hair, or black, Miss Desmond, you'd have a quite unfair advantage over the rest of us."
"You'll be lost entirely without a Lord of Creation to sharpen your pencils." "We mean to work," said Miss Voscoe; "if you want to work take a box of matches and a couple of sticks of brimstone and make a little sketch class of your own." "I don't see what you want with models," said a very young and shy boy student. "Couldn't you pose for each other, and "
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