Rhododendron Pie by Margery Sharp

Author:Margery Sharp
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2020-10-22T00:00:00+00:00

II

When she returned to the studio Dick had found his book and was standing by the window reading it. With the dark hair falling into his eyes and his pyjama collar standing up like a stock above the dark silk he looked for all the world like an elegant dandy of the early nineteenth century, noble but languid. Ann admired her brother enormously. The way he held the book in his long brown hands, the arrogant flick of the page, his complete indifference to time . . . he was splendid. Much nicer than Elizabeth even . . . in spite of his manners. There he stood completely absorbed in his book, entirely oblivious of her presence for the first time in his studio . . . or was it possible—just humanly possible—that he was waiting for her to say something about his work? Ann moved nearer the tables and began to examine the busts from all angles in what she hoped was a very knowing manner. But if Dick were noticing he gave no sign, and continued to flick the pages over with monotonous regularity.

‘I like that one,’ said Ann, halting before a particularly flat example. ‘It’s so witty.’

Dick looked up, a little annoyed at being disturbed.

‘Oh, that! Not bad. That’s Miriam Oleson. She’ll be here in a minute.’

‘Is she the one you’re having lunch with?’

‘Yes. She’s American. She thinks she’s in love with me.’ Dick went on reading.

Ann took the information with equal sangfroid, and merely observed that she had a very intelligent profile. Most of the portraits had. And the same flat rippling hair. Ann examined them all again in the light of a new idea.

‘I say, Dick.’

Dick growled.

‘Are these all portraits of Miriam Oleson?’ At that Dick turned round completely and shut his book.

‘Of course not. Don’t be imbecile, Ann.’ And he swiftly indicated Stella Ducros (with ironic nostrils), Isabel Montrose (an intelligent chin), and Cecily June (flat rippling hair).

‘It may be,’ he admitted, ‘that my particular convention gives them a certain superficial resemblance, but the trouble with you is that you don’t know how to look at anything.’ Ann regarded those witty ladies again, and despite his snubbing the thought persisted. Loyally she tried to suppress it, but in vain. They were all the same. Some were looking slightly to the right, some to the left; one or two had Grecian knots at the nape of their slender necks; but the longer she looked the more obvious it became that Dick could do only one bust. Ann wondered whether the pretty ladies themselves ever noticed anything, and whether they ever got sent home to the wrong addresses, and how Dick himself remembered which was which. . . .

‘I like Miss Montrose,’ she said, nodding towards Cecily June.

‘You mean Miriam,’ corrected Dick coldly, and returned to his book.

‘And what is the marble going to be?’ continued Ann, feeling a little ashamed of herself.

‘The marble group,’ said Dick, ‘is called “The Pilgrims.”’

There was a longer pause.

‘Who,’ asked Ann, ‘is the girl by the door?’

‘Delia Burns.

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