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Ebook has 641 lines and 27515 words, and 13 pages

Illustrator: FM

Two Studios, by Frances Peard.

STUDIO NUMBER ONE.

Art, in London, has many unexpected hiding-places. In the great palace-like houses of her successful followers she makes, it is true, at times an imposing show; but other votaries, less successful or more indifferent to outward glitter, find curious homes in which to plant their easels or model their clay. There is a broad thoroughfare along which the busy prosaic feverish rush of traffic ceaselessly presses; where all the surroundings are sordid and unpicturesque and unlovely; and, in the heart of this, a rusty entrance, with no feature to mark that it forms a division between two worlds, leads you into a strange, long court, where is an avenue of trees--twelve old pollarded trees, breaking into glad greenness of leaf, and gay with the twittering of birds. The sudden change from the noisy racket without to the peace of this quiet spot, the charm of contrast between the dark houses and the black stems and the lovely lightness of green, the oddity of an old figure-head which ends the line of trees, prepare you, in some measure, for that other world of which they form a threshold--a world in which there is hard work and heart-burning and disappointment, but also the joy of beauty and the eager interest of creation. The studios stretch like a long arm away to the right, on one side the painters with their gracious colours and draperies, and the "bits" they have collected around them; on the other the cold pure marble and the busy workmen carrying out the master's thought; or, alone and self-contained, the bronze worker, modelling the clay or moulding the wax for his nobly severe art.

Charles Everitt, who had set up his tent here among the painters, thought it, after five years' trial, the most delightful spot in the world.

To be sure he had a right to take a pleasant view of life.

"Yes. Nice picturesque interior, isn't it? There were three children ill of scarlet fever in the room when Everitt painted it. He was only admitted on condition that he sat on the edge of the bed, and gave them their medicine at the proper hour. Long ago? Oh dear, no--not long. Everitt never sticks at anything which--"

Somebody began to speak to Everitt, and he lost the remainder. Presently Jack Hibbert drifted again into hearing--

"That? Oh yes, there's a very remarkable story connected with that picture. A great deal in the girl's face, as you say. Well, Everitt happened to have painted it from a model; he doesn't always, you know. No, you're quite right; we do our best things entirely out of our own heads; it secures originality. Just so. However, sometimes Everitt has to fall back on a model, and we heard afterwards that this one was in disguise; there's was a hint that she was a duke's daughter--"

"Oh, Mr Hibbert, how delightfully romantic! Do you mean to say you did not guess?"

"Well, there was a something, there certainly was a something--you can see it in the face, can't you?--something so--so--"

"Hibbert?" growled at his elbow.

"Ah, here's Everitt himself; I'll make you over to him," said the unabashed young man, with a laugh. "I give you warning, though, that he hates romance. If you listen to him he'll deny that there's a word of truth in any of my stories."

Later on Everitt fell upon him.

"You unprincipled young dog, what do you mean by uttering such a farrago of nonsense? You'll be bringing all the scandal-mongers of London down on my head. A duke's daughter disguised as a model! I should like to know where your impudence will lead you!"

"Oh, it was the duke's daughter which made it all right. Mr Smith will want to buy that picture, you'll see. Hallo!"

Everitt's brow relaxed; he burst into a laugh, as the parrot, which Jack had been teasing, made a successful dive at his finger and seized it. Just at this moment the studio bell rang.

"Another! I'm off!" cried Jack, jumping up from his chair. Everitt himself looked anything but pleased; he flung his cigarette down with an exclamation of annoyance, and went to the door, while Jack made his escape by another exit behind an elaborate Japanese screen. It was past the time for visitors, and the foremost of the two new-comers made haste to apologise. She was a pretty woman, and a favourite cousin of Everitt's, so that there was some excuse for her intrusion.

"Yes, I know exactly what you said when you heard the bell," she said smiling. "Was Mr Hibbert with you as usual, and did he run away? I am sorry for that, because I like Mr Hibbert."

"Did you come here to tell me so? And now that you are here, won't you sit down?" questioned Everitt in his turn, putting forward a couple of chairs, and clearing away a few motley bits of drapery.

"No," said Mrs Marchmont; "I had two much better reasons. One was that I might bring Miss Aitcheson here. She has come up to London with an ingenuous mind which takes the most reverential attitude in the world towards art. I am trotting out all my lions for her benefit, and you are the biggest. Please show her something, and roar nicely."

"I had better," he said, "since there is nothing else I can do. Don't you know that this is the empty time at all the studios?"

"Oh, never mind. Your unconsidered trifles will be gratefully appreciated. Look, Bell; don't you like that face?"

"That's my duke's daughter," said Everitt with a laugh. And he told them the story of Jack's romance.

Miss Aitcheson did not say much. Everitt privately thought her rather uninteresting. She was tall and fair and slender, with light brown hair, a small head, and a very quiet manner, whether due to shyness or reserve or dulness he could not tell; nor, indeed, did he give himself the trouble to investigate very closely. He directed his attention to his cousin, Mrs Marchmont; and she was a sufficiently lively little person to have no objection to its monopoly. Meanwhile Miss Aitcheson wandered about, looking as she liked--at faded hangings, and ancient Indian rugs of fabulously fine needlework, and pictures in frames and out of them, and the parrot in his cage, and odd bits of a painter's property. In this fashion she enjoyed the studio a hundred times more than if she had been called upon at every moment to remark on its contents; and certainly the painter and Mrs Marchmont were doing very well without her. But presently their conversation touched on some subject which evidently interested her: for she drew nearer to hear it discussed, although still examining a Roman sketch which she held in her hands.

"I don't. I hate London models."

"Well," said Mrs Marchmont with swift inconsequence, "I don't suppose you expect a young girl to prowl about those places where they live?"

Everitt shrugged his shoulders. "What is it to me?"

"Charlie," repeated his cousin, with a kind of shocked disappointment in her voice, "if you will not take such an absurd fraction of trouble when I ask you--"

"My dear Mary," he said, turning quickly, "if you ask me on your own account--"

"Of course I do. I ask it as a very personal favour. If you knew Kitty Lascelles, it would be unnecessary to put it on that ground," returned Mrs Marchmont, still keeping up a little air of dignity.

"I apologise a hundred times. What is it that Miss Lascelles wants?"

"A model--an Italian model."

"Man or woman?"

"Man."

"I suppose so," she said, looking at him doubtfully.

"All young ladies like that style of thing."

"Don't be overbearing. Miss Lascelles is an excellent artist. Her father is one of the staff at the Military Hospital, and has fitted up a studio for her, where she works with--a friend," she added, with an imperceptible glance at Miss Aitcheson. "It is the most delightful old-world place you can imagine. Shall I drive you there some day?"

"Thank you; you are very good," he said hastily, "but you must remember that I am not an idle man. Besides, it is quite unnecessary; I am doing this for you."

"And you can find just what she wants? I knew you would," said his cousin triumphantly. Everitt reflected.

"I can put my hand at once on the best man in London for that sort of thing," he said slowly. "When does she want him--on Monday, I suppose?"

"Yes. Why, however, do you suppose it?"

"Because ladies are impatient in art as in everything else, and while I should spend a fortnight in selecting a good model, you would expect him to grow out of the ground at your feet."

"If I had told you that I wanted him."

"I make my bow," Everitt returned. "Well, as it happens, the best man in London for her purpose is coming here on Monday morning."

"That," said Mrs Marchmont, "is what I should have expected."

"He's a first-rate model, and an awful ruffian."

"He can't do any harm."

"Then, in spite of my character of him, you think Miss Lascelles would wish him to be sent on to her?"

Mrs Marchmont smiled.

"In that case, unless he is hopelessly drunk, I will forward him."

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