It was very pleasant under the subdued lights from above. She followed
the sweep of the drapery with delighted eye, taking an almost sensuous
pleasure in the relation of color and the grace of the arms and
throat--the simplicity of the modeling and the admirable
characterization.
She found herself repeating:
"'And those that were good shall be happy,
They shall sit in a golden chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas
With brushes of comet's hair.'
"Philip Burnett, I wonder if you're good? You ought to be. I'd be good
if I could paint like that. I'd work for an age at a sitting, too. How
could one ever be tired making adagios in color? Oh!" she sighed, "how
good it must be to amount to something!"
A procession of agreeable, vacuous faces passed before the canvas,
creatures of a common fate, garbed in the uniform of convention,
carrying the polite weapons of Vanity Fair, each like the others and as
uninteresting. The few who wore the bright chevrons of distinction had
marched with the throng for a time, but had gone back to their own. She
wondered if it would really matter if she never saw them again; of
course, the women--but the men. Would she care?
Was there not another life? It beckoned to her. What was Philip
Burnett like? Could he be young and handsome as well as gifted? The
vacuous faces vanished and in their place she could see this young
genius--Antinous and Hercules combined--standing before this canvas
living for the mere joy of work. Here was her answer. Was she to flit
through enchanted gardens other people had planted, sipping only at the
perfumed petals while the honey to be garnered was in plain sight?
A voice broke in just beside her:
"It's convincing, but I tell you, Burnett, the arm's too long."
"Perhaps. Not bad, though, for a new man. You know we Burnetts are an
exceptional race."
The men moved away and the other's reply was lost in the murmur of the
crowd. Miss Darrow turned to follow them with her eyes--what a big
fellow he was! with an admirable profile, a straight nose, a waxed
mustache, and a chin like the one on the mask of Brutus. Conceited, of
course! All artists were conceited. And who was that with him--Mortimer
Crabb? Yes, and there was the bride talking to the Pendergasts.
"Why, Milly, dear!" Mrs. Pendergast passed an incurious but observant
eye over her acquaintance. "I thought you were in Aiken. What a lovely
hat! Are you going to the Inghams? What will you wear? Isn't it restful
here?"
Miss Darrow politely acquiesced and attempted replies, but her eyes
strayed toward the Burnett portrait.
"Stunning," continued Mrs. Pendergast. "A new man just over. Quite too
clever. Wonderful color, isn't it? Like a ripe pomegranate."
"Have you met him?"
"No. He belongs to the Westchester Burnetts, though. Mrs. Hopkinson. So
glad. Is Frederick here?"
The agreeable lady had made of the portion of the galleries in the
neighborhood of the Burnett portrait a semblance of her own busy
drawing-room. Other acquaintances came up and Miss Darrow was soon lost
in the maze of small talk. A broad pair of shoulders were thrust forward
into her group, and Miss Darrow found herself looking into a pair of
quizzical gray eyes which were beaming a rather frank admiration into
hers. "Miss Darrow--Mr. Burnett," Patricia Crabb was saying; and
Millicent Darrow was conscious that in a moment the new arrival had
quietly and cleverly appropriated her and was taking her to the opposite
side of the room where he found for her a Winslow Homer of rocks and
stormy splendor.
"Why is it," she asked, after her first enthusiasm, "that the work of
the artist so seldom suggests its creator's personality?"
"The perversity of the human animal," he laughed. "That's the system
of justice of the great Republic of Art, Miss Darrow. If we lose a
characteristic here, we gain it somewhere else. Rather a nice balance,
don't you think?"
"You hardly look the poet, Mr. Burnett--you don't mind my saying so?"
she laughed. "And if you do dream, you do it with your eyes very wide
open."
Mr. Burnett's brows were tangled in bewilderment. "I'm really not much
given to dreaming. I'm rather busy, you know."
"It's splendid of you. You've worked long?"
"Er--yes--since I left college," he said, the tangle in his brows
suddenly unraveling. A smile now illuminated his rather whimsical eyes.
Miss Darrow found herself laughing frankly into them.
"Art is long--you must be at least--thirty."
"Less," he corrected. "Youth is my compensation for not being a
lawyer--or a broker."
She was conscious of the personal note in their conversation, but she
made no effort to avoid it. This genius of less than thirty gave every
token of sanity and good fellowship.
"Who is Agatha?" she asked suddenly.
"A--er--a friend of mine in Paris."
"Oh!" she said, in confusion.
And then:
"The face is of the East--the Slav--did you choose her for that
character?"
"Not at all. She was--er--just--just a sitter--a commission, you know."
"How interesting!"
They had made the rounds of the room and were now facing the portrait
again.
"It was lucky to have so good a model," he continued. "One doesn't
always. Have you ever posed, Miss Darrow?"
"I? No, never. Father has been trying to get me painted this winter.
But I've been so busy--and then we're going South in two weeks--so we
haven't been able to manage it."
"What a pity!" The subtle sparkle had died in his eyes, which from the
shadow of their heavy lashes were regarding hers intently.
"You're very kind. Would you really like to paint me?" said Miss Darrow.
"Suppose I said you should. I want my portrait done. If you make me half
as wonderful as Agatha, I shall die happy. Won't you come in to-morrow
at five? We can talk it over. I must be going now. No, not now,
to-morrow. Au revoir." She gave him her hand with a friendly nod, and
threaded her way through the crowd, leaving Burnett staring at the card
she had left in his hand.
On the way up-town in the machine Patricia examined him, smiling
curiously.
"What a delusion you are, Ross Burnett! Railing in one moment at
matrimony and in the next, tagging around like a tame bear at the heels
of the first pretty girl that crosses your path."
"She _is_ pretty, isn't she?" he admitted, promptly.
"And quite the rage--this is her third season you know. You seemed to be
getting on very rapidly----"
"Oh, it was all a mistake," Burnett laughed. "She thought I was an
artist."
"An artist? What in the world----"
"I'm going to do her portrait----"
"You!" Patricia leaned forward eagerly. "What do you mean?"
"That I'm brother Philip--the chap that did the Agatha. She mistook me
for him, and she was so nice about it that I didn't like to interfere."
Crabb was lighting a cigarette.
"I'm afraid, my dear Ross, that the East has sapped some of your moral
fiber," he said.
"It's perfectly delightful," laughed Patricia.
"But Ross can't paint----"
"I'd like to try," said Burnett.
"Fiddlesticks!"
Patricia said no more, but all the way home her face wore a smile which
would not come off. The miracle had happened. Had she searched New York
she could not have found a girl more eminently suited to Ross Burnett.
That night Mortimer had some writing to do, but Patricia and her guest
sat for a long while talking earnestly in the library. They didn't take
Mortimer into their confidence, for Patricia had now gleefully donned
the mantle her husband had so carelessly thrown aside. Here was an
opportunity to make, and Patricia became the goddess in the machine.