“What are you thinking about?” he asked one morning, as she sat by the studio fire while he painted.
“I was thinking—I often think—that I am keeping you a great deal from your friends. You’re with me almost every evening, and except when you’ve a sitter I’m with you almost every day. I don’t want to be a tie, a drag on you.”
“Yes, George, I do. But it doesn’t do to try one’s happiness too hard.
“I won’t. Trust me. It’s partly accident that I’ve been nowhere lately, partly my habit. People used to ask me everywhere, but gave it up when they found I didn’t go anywhere. There are just a few houses always open to me, and a few pals come along here whenever they choose. I used to have jolly little informal suppers on Sundays last winter. We must start them again. A few men and women——”
“But—” she interrupted, raising her eyebrows and expressing by a motion of her hands that the women would consider her taboo.
“Oh, not that sort of woman, Marian. Good sorts, who believe that the world was made for men and women, not men and women for the world. We’ll send a line round to some of them: ‘Suppers begin again Sunday next. Come whenever you don’t want to go anywhere else.’ Everything’s put on the table and we wait on ourselves. Fred—Fred Mortimer—you’ll like him—is a dandy man with the chafing-dish, and when he comes we indulge in extravagant luxuries.”
“Of course I am. Quite sure and quite proud. It’ll be awfully jolly having a hostess. Hullo! I wonder who this can be—don’t move.”
The door opened and the servant announced Mr. Philip West.
“Mrs. Squire,” said Maddison, “let me introduce Mr. Philip West. Mrs. Squire is helping me to paint a picture.”
“Helping!” she exclaimed. “I’m the fly on the wheel.”
West examined the picture and Marian critically.
“It’s good,” he said slowly, “very good; it’ll be the biggest thing you’ve done. May I commission it? I’d like to have it”—he looked straight at Marian as he spoke. “That reminds me why I came here this morning. If you’ve time and inclination—I know what a particular cuss you are—I should be glad if you’d paint my wife’s portrait. I should think she might suit you. You remember her?”
“I am a particular cuss,” Maddison answered, smiling grimly at the remembrance of various commissions rejected. “Have you said anything to Mrs. West?”