Mildred soon began to perceive and to understand the intimate life of
the galleries, a strange life full of its special idiosyncrasies.
There were titled ladies who came with their maids and commanded
respect from the keeper of the gallery, and there was a lady with
bright yellow hair who occasioned him much anxiety. For she allowed
visitors not only to enter into conversation with her, but if they
pleased her fancy she would walk about the galleries with them and
take them out to lunch. There was an old man who copied Hogarth, he
was madly in love with a young woman who copied Rossetti. But she was
in love with an academy student who patronised all the girls and spent
his time in correcting their drawings. A little further away was
another old man who copied Turner. By a special permission he came at
eight o'clock, two hours before the galleries were open. It was said
that with a tree from one picture, a foreground from another, a piece
of distance from a third, a sky from a fourth, he had made a picture
which had taken in the Academicians, and had been hung in Burlington
House as an original work by Crome. Most of his work was done before
the students entered the galleries; he did very little after ten
o'clock; he pottered round from easel to easel chattering; but he
never imparted the least of his secrets. He knew how to evade
questions, and after ten minutes' cross-examination he would say 'Good
morning,' and leave the student no wiser than he was before. A legend
was in circulation that to imitate Turner's rough surfaces he covered
his canvas with plaster of Paris and glazed upon it.
The little life of the galleries was alive with story. Walter was a
fair young man with abundant hair and conversation. Elsie hung about
his easel. He covered a canvas with erratic blots of colour and quaint
signs, but his plausive eloquence carried him through, and Elsie
thought more highly of his talents than he did of hers. They were
garrulous one as the other, and it was pleasant to see them strolling
about the galleries criticising and admiring, until Elsie said:
'Now, Walter, I must get back to my work, and don't you think it would
be better if you went on with yours?'
So far as Mildred could see, Elsie's life seemed from the beginning to
have been made up of painting and young men. She was fond of Walter,
but she wasn't sure that she did not like Henry best, and later,
others--a Jim, a Hubert, and a Charles--knocked at her studio door,
and they were all admitted, and they wasted Elsie's time and drank her
tea. Very often they addressed their attentions to Mildred, but she
said she could not encourage them, they were all fast, and she said
she did not like fast men.
'I never knew a girl like you; you're not like other girls. Did you
never like a man? I never really. I once thought you liked Ralph.'
'Yes, I do like him. But he's different from these men; he doesn't
make love to me. I like him to like me, but I don't think I should
like him if he made love to me.'
'You're an odd girl; I don't believe there's another like you.'
'I can't think how you can like all these men to make love to you.'
'They don't all make love to me,' Elsie answered quickly. 'I hope you
don't think there's anything wrong. It is merely Platonic.'
'I should hope so. But they waste a great deal of your time.'
'Yes, that's the worst of it. I like men, men are my life, I don't
mind admitting it. But I know they've interfered with my painting.
That's the worst of it.'
Then the conversation turned on Cissy Clive. 'Cissy is a funny girl,'
Elsie said. 'For nine months out of every twelve she leads a highly-
respectable life in West Kensington. But every now and then the fit
takes her, and she tells her mother, who believes every word she says,
that she's staying with me. In reality, she takes rooms in Clarges
Street, and has a high old time.'
'I once heard her whispering to you something about not giving her
away if you should happen to meet her mother.'
'I remember, about Hopwood Blunt. He had just returned from Monte
Carlo.'
'But I suppose it is all right. She likes talking to him.'
'I don't think she can find much to talk about to Hopwood Blunt,' said
Elsie, laughing. 'Haven't you seen him? He is often in the galleries.'
'What does she say?'
'She says he's a great baby--that he amuses her.'
Next day, Mildred went to visit Cissy in the unfrequented gallery
where her 'Bather' would not give scandal to the visitors. She had
nearly completed her copy; it was excellent, and Mildred could not
praise it sufficiently. Then the girls spoke of Elsie and Walter.
Mildred said:
'She seems very fond of him.'
'And of how many others? Elsie never could be true to a man. It was
just the same in the Academy schools. And that studio of hers? Have
you been to any of her tea-parties? They turn down the lights, don't
they?'