It was a woman, in classic
drapery, standing upon the seashore, her head thrown back, her
magnificent hair flowing unrestrained, and one of her bare arms
raised in a gesture of exultation. As he gazed at the drawing with
delight, Miss Bonnicastle appeared from the inner room, dressed for
walking.
"What do you think of _that_?" she exclaimed.
"Better than anything you ever did!"
"True enough! That's Kite. Don't you recognise his type?"
"One thinks of Ariadne," said Piers, "but the face won't do for
her."
"Yes, it's Ariadne--but I doubt if I shall have the brutality to
finish out my idea. She is to have lying on the sand by her a case
of Higginson's Hair-wash, stranded from a wreck, and a bottle of it
in her hand. See the notion? Her despair consoled by discovery of
Higginson!"
They laughed, but Piers broke off in half-serious anger.
"That's damnable! You won't do it. For one thing, the mob wouldn't
understand. And in heaven's name do spare the old stories! I'm
amazed that Kite should consent to it."
"Poor old fellow!" said Miss Bonnicastle, with an indulgent smile,
"he'll do anything a woman asks of him. But I shan't have the heart
to spoil it with Higginson; I know I shan't."
"After all," Piers replied, "I don't know why you shouldn't. What's
the use of our scruples? That's the doom of everything beautiful."
"We'll talk about it another time.
Pages:
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407