'We've come back,' said Elsie. 'We heard at the studio that you had
gone away feeling ill, so we came on here to find out how you were.'
'Oh, it is nothing,' said Mildred. 'I've been working rather hard
lately, that's all.'
'You should have come with us,' said Cissy. 'We've had an awfully
jolly time.'
'We'll go into the drawing-room. Wait a minute till I find my
slippers.'
'Oh, don't trouble to get up; we only came to see how you were,' said
Elsie.
'But I'm quite well, there's really nothing the matter. It was only
that I felt I couldn't go on working this afternoon. The model bored
me, and it was so hot. It was very good of you to come and see me like
this.'
'We've had a jolly time and have done a lot of work.'
'Elsie has done a girl weaving a daisy-chain in a meadow. It is
wonderful how she has got the sunlight on the grass. All our things
are in the studio, you will see them to-morrow.'
'I don't see why I shouldn't see them to-day. I'll dress myself.'
The account they gave of their summer outing was tantalising to the
tired and jaded girl. She imagined the hushed and shady places, the
murmuring mystery of bird and insect life. She could see them going
forth in the mornings with their painting materials, sitting at their
easels under the tall trees, intent on their work or lying on rugs
spread in the shade, the blue smoke of cigarettes curling and going
out, or later in the evening packing up easels and paint-boxes, and
finding their way out of the forest.
It was Elsie who did most of the talking. Cissy reminded her now and
then of something she had forgotten, and, when they turned into the
Passage des Panoramas, Elsie was deep in an explanation of the folly
of square brush work. Both were converts to open brush work. They had
learnt it from a very clever fellow, an impressionist. All his shadows
were violet. She did not hold with his theory regarding the division
of the tones: at least not yet. Perhaps she would come to it in time.
Mildred liked Elsie's lady in a white dress reading under a
rhododendron tree in full blossom. Cissy had painted a naked woman in
the garden sunshine. Mildred did not think that flesh could be so
violet as that, but there was a dash and go about it that she felt she
would never attain. It seemed to her a miracle, and, in her admiration
for her friend's work, she forgot her own failure. The girls dined at
a Bouillon Duval and afterwards they went to the theatre together.
Next morning they met, all three, in the studio; the model was
interesting, Mildred caught the movement more happily than usual; her
friends' advice had helped her.
But at least two years would have to pass before she would know if she
had the necessary talent to succeed as an artist. For that while she
must endure the drudgery of the studio and the boredom of evenings
alone with Mrs. Fargus. She went out with Elsie and Cissy sometimes,
but the men they introduced her to were not to her taste. She had seen
no one who interested her in Paris, except perhaps M. Daveau. That
thick-set, black-bearded southern, with his subtle southern manner,
had appealed to her, in a way. But M. Daveau had been ordered suddenly
to Royon for gout and rheumatism, and Mildred was left without any one
to exercise her attractions upon. She spent evening after evening with
Mrs. Fargus, until the cropped hair, the spectacles, above all, the
black satin dress with the crimson scarf, getting more and more
twisted, became intolerable. And Mr. Fargus' cough and his vacuous
conversation, in which no shadow of an idea ever appeared, tried her
temper. But she forebore, seeing how anxious they were to please her.
That was the worst. These simple kind-hearted people saw that their
sitting-room bored Mildred, and they often took her for drives in the
Bois after dinner. Crazed with boredom Mildred cast side-long glances
of hatred at Mrs. Fargus, who sat by her side a mute little figure
lost in Comte. Mr. Fargus' sallow-complexioned face was always
opposite her; he uttered commonplaces in a loud voice, and Mildred
longed to fling herself from the carriage. At last, unable to bear
with reality, she chattered, laughed, and told stories and joked until
her morose friends wondered at her happiness. Her friends were her
audience; they sufficed to stimulate the histrionic spirit in her, and
she felt pleased like an actor who has amused an audience which he
despises.
She had now been in Paris seven months, but she had seen little of
Paris except the studio and the Bouillon Duval where she went to
breakfast with Elsie and Cissy. The spectacle of the Boulevards, the
trees and the cafes always the same, had begun to weary her. Her
health, too, troubled her a little, she was not very strong, and she
had begun to think that a change would do her good. She would return
to Paris in the spring; she would spend next summer in Barbizon; she
was determined to allow nothing to interfere with her education; but,
for the moment, she felt that she must go back to Sutton. Every day
her craving for England grew more intolerable. She craved for England,
for her home, for its food, for its associations. She longed for her
own room, for her garden, for the trap. She wanted to see all the
girls, to hear what they thought of her absence. She wanted to see
Harold.
At first his letters had irritated her, she had said that he wanted
her to look after his house; she had argued that a man never hesitates
to put aside a woman's education, if it suits his convenience. But now
it seemed to her that it would be unkind to leave Harold alone any
longer. It was manifestly her duty to go home, to spend Christmas with
him. She was only going to Sutton for a while. She loved France, and
would certainly return. She knew now what Paris was like, and when she
returned it would be alone, or in different company. Mrs. Fargus was
very well, but she could not go on living with her for ever. She would
come in useful another time. But, for the moment, she could not go on
living with her, she had become a sort of Old Man of the Sea, and the
only way to rid herself of her was by returning to England.
An imperative instinct was drawing her back to England, but another
instinct equally strong said: 'As soon as I am rested, nothing shall
prevent me from returning to Paris.'