There was an amusing little story going the rounds in connection with a certain peeress--one of the "new rich" fraternity--who had recently sat to Rooke for her portrait. Her husband's title had presumably been conferred in recognition of the arduous services--of an industrial and financial nature--which he had rendered during the war. The lady was inclined to be refulgent on the slightest provocation, and when Rooke had discussed with her his ideas for her portrait she had indignantly repudiated his suggestion that only a simple evening gown and furs should be worn.
"But it will look like the picture of a mere nobody," she had protested. "Of--of just anyone!"
"Of anyone--or someone," came Rooke's answer. "The portrait of a great lady should be able to indicate . . . which."
The newly-fledged peeress proceeded to explain that her own idea had been that she should be painted wearing her state robes and coronet--plus any additional jewels which could find place on her person.
"But, by all means," he agreed. "Only, if it is of them you require a portrait, you must go to Grégoire Marni. He paints still-life."
Rooke came into the room and greeted his visitors with outstretched hands.
"My dear Penelope and Ralph," he began cordially. "This is good of busy people like yourselves--"
He caught sight of the third figure standing a little behind the Fentons and stopped abruptly. His eyes seemed to flinch for a moment. Then he made a quick step forward.
"Why, Nan!" he exclaimed. "This is a most charming surprise."
His voice and manner were perfectly composed; only his intense paleness and the compression of his fine-cut nostrils betrayed any agitation. Nan had seen that "white" look on his face before.
Then Penelope rushed in with some commonplace remark and the brief tension was over.
"Come and see my Mrs. T. Van Decken," said Rooke presently. "The light's pretty fair now, but it will be gone after tea."
They trooped out of the room and into the studio, where several other people, who had already examined the great portrait, were still strolling about looking at various paintings and sketches.
It was a big bare barn of a place with its cold north light, for Rooke, sybarite as he was in other respects, treated his work from a Spartan standpoint which permitted necessities only in his studio.