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<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> It was very pleasant under the subdued lights from above. She followed the sweep of the drapery with delighted eye, taking an almost sensuous pleasure in the relation of color and the grace of the arms and throat—the simplicity of the modeling and the admirable characterization. She found herself repeating: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> “‘And those that were good shall be happy, They shall sit in a golden chair; They shall splash at a ten-league canvas With brushes of comet’s hair.’ </div> </div> “Philip Burnett, I wonder if you’re good? You ought to be. I’d be good if I could paint like that. I’d work for an age at a sitting, too. How could one ever be tired making adagios in color? Oh!” she sighed, “how good it must be to amount to something!” [130] A procession of agreeable, vacuous faces passed before the canvas, creatures of a common fate, garbed in the uniform of convention, carrying the polite weapons of Vanity Fair, each like the others and as uninteresting. The few who wore the bright chevrons of distinction had marched with the throng for a time, but had gone back to their own. She wondered if it would really matter if she never saw them again; of course, the women—but the men. Would she care? Was there not another life? It beckoned to her. What was Philip Burnett like? Could he be young and handsome as well as gifted? The vacuous faces vanished and in their place she could see this young genius—Antinous and Hercules combined—standing before this canvas living for the mere joy of work. Here was her answer. Was she to flit through enchanted gardens other people had planted, sipping only at the perfumed petals while the honey to be garnered was in plain sight? [131] A voice broke in just beside her: “It’s convincing, but I tell you, Burnett, the arm’s too long.” “Perhaps. Not bad, though, for a new man. You know we Burnetts are an exceptional race.” The men moved away and the other’s reply was lost in the murmur of the crowd. Miss Darrow turned to follow them with her eyes—what a big fellow he was! with an admirable profile, a straight nose, a waxed mustache, and a chin like the one on the mask of Brutus. Conceited, of course! All artists were conceited. And who was that with him—Mortimer Crabb? Yes, and there was the bride talking to the Pendergasts. “Why, Milly, dear!” Mrs. Pendergast passed an incurious but observant eye over her acquaintance. “I thought you were in Aiken. What a lovely hat! Are you going to the Inghams? What will you wear? Isn’t it restful here?” Miss Darrow politely acquiesced and attempted[132] replies, but her eyes strayed toward the Burnett portrait. “Stunning,” continued Mrs. Pendergast. “A new man just over. Quite too clever. Wonderful color, isn’t it? Like a ripe pomegranate.” “Have you met him?” “No. He belongs to the Westchester Burnetts, though. Mrs. Hopkinson. So glad. Is Frederick here?” The agreeable lady had made of the portion of the galleries in the neighborhood of the Burnett portrait a semblance of her own busy drawing-room. Other acquaintances came up and Miss Darrow was soon lost in the maze of small talk. A broad pair of shoulders were thrust forward into her group, and Miss Darrow found herself looking into a pair of quizzical gray eyes which were beaming a rather frank admiration into hers. “Miss Darrow—Mr. Burnett,” Patricia Crabb was saying; and Millicent Darrow was conscious that in a moment the new arrival[133] had quietly and cleverly appropriated her and was taking her to the opposite side of the room where he found for her a Winslow Homer of rocks and stormy splendor. “Why is it,” she asked, after her first enthusiasm, “that the work of the artist so seldom suggests its creator’s personality?” “The perversity of the human animal,” he laughed. “That’s the system of justice of the great Republic of Art, Miss Darrow. If we lose a characteristic here, we gain it somewhere else. Rather a nice balance, don’t you think?” “You hardly look the poet, Mr. Burnett—you don’t mind my saying so?” she laughed. “And if you do dream, you do it with your eyes very wide open.” Mr. Burnett’s brows were tangled in bewilderment. “I’m really not much given to dreaming. I’m rather busy, you know.” “It’s splendid of you. You’ve worked long?” “Er—yes—since I left college,” he said,[134] the tangle in his brows suddenly unraveling. A smile now illuminated his rather whimsical eyes. Miss Darrow found herself laughing frankly into them. “Art is long—you must be at least—thirty.” “Less,” he corrected. “Youth is my compensation for not being a lawyer—or a broker.” She was conscious of the personal note in their conversation, but she made no effort to avoid it. This genius of less than thirty gave every token of sanity and good fellowship. “Who is Agatha?” she asked suddenly. “A—er—a friend of mine in Paris.” “Oh!” she said, in confusion. And then: “The face is of the East—the Slav—did you choose her for that character?” “Not at all. She was—er—just—just a sitter—a commission, you know.” “How interesting!” [135] They had made the rounds of the room and were now facing the portrait again. “It was lucky to have so good a model,” he continued. “One doesn’t always. Have you ever posed, Miss Darrow?” “I? No, never. Father has been trying to get me painted this winter. But I’ve been so busy—and then we’re going South in two weeks—so we haven’t been able to manage it.” “What a pity!” The subtle sparkle had died in his eyes, which from the shadow of their heavy lashes were regarding hers intently. “You’re very kind. Would you really like to paint me?” said Miss Darrow. “Suppose I said you should. I want my portrait done. If you make me half as wonderful as Agatha, I shall die happy. Won’t you come in to-morrow at five? We can talk it over. I must be going now. No, not now, to-morrow. Au revoir.” She gave him her hand with a friendly nod, and threaded her way through[136] the crowd, leaving Burnett staring at the card she had left in his hand. On the way up-town in the machine Patricia examined him, smiling curiously. “What a delusion you are, Ross Burnett! Railing in one moment at matrimony and in the next, tagging around like a tame bear at the heels of the first pretty girl that crosses your path.” “She is pretty, isn’t she?” he admitted, promptly. “And quite the rage—this is her third season you know. You seemed to be getting on very rapidly——” “Oh, it was all a mistake,” Burnett laughed. “She thought I was an artist.” “An artist? What in the world——” “I’m going to do her portrait——” “You!” Patricia leaned forward eagerly. “What do you mean?” “That I’m brother Philip—the chap that did the Agatha. She mistook me for him,[137] and she was so nice about it that I didn’t like to interfere.” Crabb was lighting a cigarette. “I’m afraid, my dear Ross, that the East has sapped some of your moral fiber,” he said. “It’s perfectly delightful,” laughed Patricia. “But Ross can’t paint——” “I’d like to try,” said Burnett. “Fiddlesticks!” Patricia said no more, but all the way home her face wore a smile which would not come off. The miracle had happened. Had she searched New York she could not have found a girl more eminently suited to Ross Burnett. That night Mortimer had some writing to do, but Patricia and her guest sat for a long while talking earnestly in the library. They didn’t take Mortimer into their confidence, for Patricia had now gleefully donned the mantle her husband had so carelessly thrown aside. Here was an opportunity to make, and Patricia became the goddess in the machine. <hr class="chap" />[138] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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