Then you might accuse me of flattering you."
"Am I really as changeable as that?"
"I did not say you were changeable.
It just happens that you reflect upon your face what is passing through your mind, which is exactly what an artist desires."
"How very unfeeling of the artist."
"How so?"
"To make copy of emotion, at the expense of the sitter.
To catch a mood, and place it on paper, and so shame the possessor of the mood."
"Possibly.
But on the other hand the owner of the mood might decide, on seeing herself reflected for the first time, to discard the mood altogether, as being unworthy, and a waste of time."
As he spoke he tore the drawing across, and then again into small pieces.
"There," he said, "we will forget about it.
And anyway it was an unpardonable thing to do.
You told me yesterday that I had been trespassing upon your land.
It is a fault of mine, in more ways than one.
Piracy leads one into evil habits."
He stood up, and she saw that he had it in his mind to go.
"Forgive me," she said. "I must have seemed querulous, and rather spoilt.
The truth is - when I looked upon your drawing - I was ashamed, because for the first time someone else had seen me as I too often see myself.
It was as though I had some blemish on my body and you had drawn me, naked."
"Yes. But supposing the artist bears a similar blemish himself, only more disfiguring, need the sitter still feel ashamed?"
"You mean, there would be a bond between them?"
"Exactly."
Once more he smiled, and then he turned, and went towards the window.
"When the east wind starts blowing on this coast it continues for several days," he said.
"My ship will be weather-bound and I can be idle, and make many drawings.
Perhaps you will let me draw you again?"
"With a different expression?"
"That is for you to say.
Do not forget you have signed your name in my book, and when the mood comes upon you to make your escape even more complete, the creek is accustomed to fugitives."
"I shall not forget."
"There are birds to watch, too, and fishes to catch, and streams to be explored.
All these are methods of escape."
"Which you have found successful?"
"Which I have found successful.
Thank you for my supper.
Good night."
"Good night."
This time the Frenchman did not touch her hand, but went out through the window, without looking back, and she watched him disappear amongst the trees, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his coat.
CHAPTER VIII
The air was stifling inside the house, and because of his lady's condition Lord Godolphin had commanded that the windows should be shut, and the curtains drawn across them to screen her from the sun.
The brightness of midsummer would fatigue her, the soft air might bring a greater pallor to her already languid cheeks.
But lying on the sofa, backed with cushions, exchanging small civilities with her friends, the half-darkened room humming with heavy chatter and the warm smell of humanity eating crumbling cake - that could tire nobody. It was both Lord Godolphin's and his lady's idea of relaxation.
"Never again," thought Dona, "never again will I be persuaded forth, whether for Harry's or for conscience's sake, to meet my neighbours," and bending down, feigning an interest in a little lap-dog crouching at her gown, she gave him the damp chunk of cake forced upon her by Godolphin himself.
Out of the tail of her eye she saw that her action had been observed, and horror upon horror, here was her host bearing down upon her once again, a fresh assortment in his hands, and she must smile her false, brilliant smile, and bow her thanks and place yet another dripping morsel between her reluctant lips.
"If you could only persuade Harry to forsake the pleasures of the Town," observed Godolphin, "we could have many of these small informal gatherings. With my wife in her present state, a large assembly would be prejudicial to her health, but a few friends, such as we have today, can do her nothing but good.
I greatly regret that Harry is not here."
He looked about him, satisfied with his hospitality, and Dona, drooping upon her chair, counted once again the fifteen or sixteen persons in the room, who, weary of each other's company over too great a span of years, watched her with apathetic interest.
The ladies observed her gown, the new long gloves she played with on her lap, and the hat with the sweeping feather that concealed her right cheek.
The men stared dumbly, as though in the front seats at a playhouse, and one or two, with heavy jovial humour, questioned her about the life at Court, and the pleasures of the King, as though the very fact of her coming from London gave her full knowledge of his life and of his habits.