“But my father’s not here yet.”
“Your father--?” I could have kicked myself for the way I bungled it!
“He went out very early this morning, and left word that he would meet
me here at the usual hour.”
She faced me, with an eye full of bright courage, across the newspaper
lying between us.
“He ought to be here in a moment now--he’s always so punctual. But my
watch is a little fast, I think.”
She held it out to me almost gaily, and I was just pretending to compare
it with mine, when there was a smart rap on the door and Vard stalked
in. There was always a civic majesty in his gait, an air of having just
stepped off his pedestal and of dissembling an oration in his umbrella;
and that day he surpassed himself. Miss Vard had turned pale at the
knock; but the mere sight of him replenished her veins, and if she now
avoided my eye, it was in mere pity for my discomfiture.
I was in fact the only one of the three who didn’t instantly “play up”;
but such virtuosity was inspiring, and by the time Vard had thrown off
his coat and dropped into a senatorial pose, I was ready to pitch into
my work. I swore I’d do his face then and there; do it as she saw it;
she sat close to him, and I had only to glance at her while I painted--
Vard himself was masterly: his talk rattled through my hesitations and
embarrassments like a brisk northwester sweeping the dry leaves from
its path. Even his daughter showed the sudden brilliance of a lamp from
which the shade has been removed. We were all surprisingly vivid--it
felt, somehow, as though we were being photographed by flash-light...
It was the best sitting we’d ever had--but unfortunately it didn’t last
more than ten minutes.
It was Vard’s secretary who interrupted us--a slinking chap called
Cornley, who burst in, as white as sweetbread, with the face of a
depositor who hears his bank has stopped payment. Miss Vard started up
as he entered, but caught herself together and dropped back into her
chair. Vard, who had taken out a cigarette, held the tip tranquilly to
his fusée.
“You’re here, thank God!” Cornley cried. “There’s no time to be lost,
Mr. Vard. I’ve got a carriage waiting round the corner in Thirteenth
Street--”
Vard looked at the tip of his cigarette.
“A carriage in Thirteenth Street? My good fellow, my own brougham is at
the door.”
“I know, I know--but _they_‘re there too, sir; or they will be, inside
of a minute. For God’s sake, Mr. Vard, don’t trifle!--There’s a way out
by Thirteenth Street, I tell you”--
“Bardwell’s myrmidons, eh?” said Vard. “Help me on with my overcoat,
Cornley, will you?”
Cornley’s teeth chattered.
“Mr. Vard, your best friends ... Miss Vard, won’t you speak to your
father?” He turned to me haggardly;--“We can get out by the back way?”