The Cat's Eye by R. Austin Freeman

Author:R. Austin Freeman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: The Cat’s Eye
ISBN: 9780755128532
Publisher: House of Stratus
Published: 2013-01-03T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

From the Jaws of Death

On the following morning it seemed natural that my steps should stray in the direction of Jacob Street, not only that I might relieve my anxiety as to my friend whom I had left overnight in so distressed a state, but also to ascertain whether any services that I could render were at the moment in request. As to the former, my mind was completely set at rest as soon as I entered the studio (to which I was conducted by Mrs Wingrave, who opened the wicket), for I found Miss Blake hard at work and looking as cheerful and interested as if poisoned sweets and brazen-haired Jezebels were things unheard of.

I explained, half-apologetically, the purpose of my visit, and was preparing a strategic retreat when she interrupted me.

‘Now, Mr Anstey, I will not have these formalities. We aren’t strangers. You have been, and are, the best and kindest of friends to me and Percy, and we are not only grateful but we value your friendship very much indeed. As to Percy, he loves you.’

‘Does he?’ said I, with an inward glow of satisfaction. ‘I am proud to know that. And Percy’s sister—?’

She coloured very prettily and smilingly avoided the pitfall. ‘Percy’s sister,’ she replied, ‘takes an indulgent view of her brother’s infatuation. But I am going to treat you as a friend. I am going on with my work, because it has to be done, even if I didn’t like doing it; but it would be very nice and companionable if you would sit down and smoke a pipe and talk to me, that is, of course, if you can spare the time.’

‘If I could spare the time!’ Why, the whole Appeal Court, with the House of Lords thrown in, might have sat and twiddled their thumbs for all I cared. But, in fact, I had nothing to do at all.

‘You are sure I shan’t hinder you?’ I said, feeling for my pipe.

‘Perfectly,’ she answered. ‘I have done all the troublesome part, you see – posing and draping the model,’ and she pointed with her pencil to a lay figure (it was an elaborate, ‘stuffed’ figure with real hair and a wax face and hands), dressed in the very height of fashion, which stood, posed in what Lewis Carroll would have called an ‘Anglo-Saxon attitude,’ simpering at us idiotically.

‘That is a very magnificent costume,’ I remarked. ‘I suppose it is one of your own? Or do you keep a wardrobe for the models?’

‘It isn’t costume at all,’ she replied with a laugh. ‘It is just dress material draped on and tacked or pinned in position. You will see if you go round to the other side.’

I went round to the ‘off-side,’ and having thus discovered the fraud, asked: ‘Is this a figure for a subject picture?’

She laughed softly. ‘Bless your innocent heart, Mr Anstey, I don’t paint pictures. I draw fashion-plates. I have to earn a living, you know, and give Percy a start.’

‘What a horrid waste of talent!’ I exclaimed.

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