Agatha Christie by The Harlequin Tea Set & Other Stories

Author:The Harlequin Tea Set & Other Stories [Set, The Harlequin Tea & Stories, Other]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-10-31T21:34:49+00:00

Page 48

"No, silly, the party. Of course the portrait's a suc-cess.''

"It's the best thing I've done," Everard declared ag-gressively.

AGATH

CHRISTIE

"We're getting on," said Isobel. "Lady Charming-ton wants you to paint her." "Oh, Lord!" He fro'wned. "I'm not a fashionable portrait painter, you knw." "You will be. You'll get to the top of the tree." "That's not the tree I want to get to the top of." "But, Alan dear, that's the way to make mints of money." "Who wants mints of money?"

"Perhaps I do," she Said smiling. At once he felt apologetic, ashamed. If she had not married him she could have had her mints of money.And she needed it. A ceptain amount of luxury was her proper setting. "We've not done so badly just lately," he said wistfully."No, indeed; but the bills are coming in rather fast." Bills--always bills! He walked up and dwn. "Oh, hang it! I don't want to paint Lady Charming-ton," he burst out, rather like a petulant child. Isobel smiled a little. She stood by the fire without moving. Alan stopped his restless pacing and came nearer to her. What was there in her, in her stillness, her inertia, that drew him--drew him like a magnet?

How beautiful she washer arms like sculptured white marble, the pure gold of her hair, her lips--red, full lips.

He kissed them felt them fasten on his own. Did anything else matter? What was there in Isobel that soothed you, that took all your cares from you? She drew you into her own beautiful inertia and held you there, quiet and content. Poppy and mandragora; you drifted there, on a dark lake, asleep. I'll do Lady Charmington," he said presently. "What does it matter? I shall be bored--but after all, painters must eat. There's Mr. Pots the painter, Mrs. Pots the painter's wife, and Miss Pots the painter's daughter--all needing sustenance." "Absurd boy!" said Isobel. "Talking of our daughter-you ought to go and see Jane some time. She was here yesterday, and said she hadn't seen you for months." "Jane was here?" "Yes--to see Winnie." Alan brushed Winnie aside. "Did she see the picture of you?" "Yes." "What did she think of it?" "She said it was splendid." "Oh!"

He frowned, lost in thought. "Mrs. Lempribre suspects you of a guilty passion for Jane, I think,"

remarked lsobel. "Her nose twitched a good deal." "That woman!" said Alan, with deep disgust.

"That

AGATHA CHRISTIE

woman! What wouldn't she think? What doesn't she

think?"

"Well, I don't think," said Isobel, smiling. "So go on and see Jane soon."

Alan looked across at her. She was sitting now on a low couch by the fire. Her face was half turned away, the smile still lingered on her lips. And at that moment he felt bewildered, confused, as though a mist had formed round him, and suddenly parting, had given him a glimpse into a strange country.

Something said to him: "Why does she want you to go and see Jane? There's a reason." Because with Iso-bel, there was bound to be a reason. There was no im-pulse in Isobel, only calculation.

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