Reflected Glory. John Russell Fearn
“Naturally the person in the painting is discussed,” he agreed. “Why? Wouldn’t you care for that?”
“I’d love it!” she declared, with surprising earnestness. “In fact I can’t think of a better way of attracting attention without being present in person.”
Clive felt that this was a most extraordinary statement, and he was still struggling to explain it to himself when the girl spoke again.
“My glory, such as it is, Mr. Hexley, is reflected. I said that I am not an artist in the same sense that you are. By that I mean I cannot paint or draw. I’m a writer.”
The young man’s face lighted. “A writer! Well, then, that surely gives us a kind of kinship, doesn’t it? Writers, actors, and artists are all in the same class. I suppose I should know your works?” He looked somewhat ashamed. “I’m afraid I read very little. Certainly I can’t recall having seen the name of Elsa Farraday.”
“That’s not surprising,” Elsa laughed. “I use the name of ‘Hardy Strong.’ Quite successfully, too. My enjoyment comes from the fact that I achieve popularity, even fame of sorts, without having to do it with my personality. I’m just not the type to be on show. I’m—afraid of people.”
“I find that hard to credit—a girl as attractive and poised as you.”
“All you see is the outward shell, Mr. Hexley. There’s quite a lot going on in my mind.”
Clive looked deeply into her grey eyes for a moment and then came back to his subject.
“About my painting.... Do you think you’d care?”
“I’d be delighted. It so happens that I can spare the time just at present. I’m between novels, hunting round for ideas—and they don’t come too easily sometimes.”
“Inspiration has no master,” he smiled. “I know that, too.... However, to become very commonplace for a moment: there is a fee of—”
“Which doesn’t interest me in the least,” Elsa interrupted. “Whatever it may be, donate it to a worthy charity. I’ll pose for you because I want the extreme pleasure of seeing my portrait hanging in the Academy and having people discuss it—and me. You perhaps can’t understand the thrill of being discussed and yet being just an onlooker at the same time?”
“No.” Clive looked at her frankly. “I’m afraid I can’t. It sounds quite an odd outlook to me. Matter of temperament, I suppose.... Well now, what time would suit you? Beforehand, let me say that in summer I work mornings and evenings. From noon until six I wander around looking for material. That’s why I’m in this café now—and this time my search has proven fruitful.”
“I’ll be staying in London overnight,” Elsa said, thinking. “I’m not returning to Midhampton—that’s in Surrey—until tomorrow evening. I could sit for you to tomorrow morning.”
“That’ll be fine, only....” Clive looked troubled. “I shan’t be able to do it at one sitting. You surely realize that? It will take several. Before we start how is that possibility going to fit in with your arrangements?’
“If you can make the sittings consecutive I can delay my return home for a week, or even longer— Or are you one of the temperamental geniuses who work in spasms at monthly intervals?”
He shook his dark head. “My business is too serious to permit of temperament, Miss Farraday. I work as a man works at his office. Four consecutive mornings should do the trick.”
“Then it’s settled then,” Elsa said, as he rose. “I’ll be at your studio at ten tomorrow morning.”
He reached down and shook the cool, slim hand she held up to him. For a moment he retained his grip on her fingers.
“I have my car outside, if there’s anywhere I can drop you?’
“That’s kind of you, Mr. Hexley—but I don’t much care for cars. Even though I live out in the country I never use a car. In any case I’ve several calls to make this afternoon. If any urgency should demand you get in touch with me I’m staying at the Claremont Hotel in Kingsway.”
“Right!” He released her hand, hesitating again. “I suppose I couldn’t pick you up tomorrow morning at your hotel? My place is a bit tricky to get at.”
“I’ll find it,” Elsa assured him coolly. “Thanks all the same. I’m a bit of an individualist in some things.”
He laughed. “That’s the creative instinct! Well, tomorrow morning, then.... Bye for now.”
Elsa nodded and watched him hurry back to his table. He stayed only long enough to pick up the check, then taking his hat from the nearby pillar hook he headed towards the cash desk. Elsa saw him leave by the big glass doors and vanish in the busy main street.
“To think that there is a chance of the artistic world talking of Elsa Farraday,” she murmured. “Perhaps it is just one real opportunity of having the world recognize me—in a way that could never obtain through my novels.”
She lighted a cigarette and pondered—until she realized that with the steady arrival of potential diners her table was needed.
CHAPTER TWO
When Clive Hexley had said that his studio was a “bit tricky to get at” he had certainly not exaggerated. Elsa found it took her half an hour the following morning to trace it, walking in and out of the closely congested streets of Chelsea, most of them rendered all the more dingy by the merciless light of the summer sun; then at length she found Dell Road and stood considering it doubtfully.
It was narrow, cramped, and had all the appearance of a slum. She debated whether or not to forget the whole idea and recalled to mind a number of suspicions she had formed. For instance, Clive Hexley might not really be an artist: his card had only said he was, and that did not mean a thing. He might have some ulterior motive for his offer. Certainly, if he could work in a district like this he must have a mind superbly insulated from external impressions.
Yet even as she thought matters over, Elsa found herself walking slowly, studying the facades of the old-style buildings as she moved. There seemed to be a curious mixture of houses and business premises—then presently, on the other side of the road the sign CARDENWORTH STUDIOS caught her eye and she surveyed the building speculatively.
It was high, skylighted, and old-fashioned, every bit as unprepossessing as the rest of the buildings. Worn steps led up to a paint-blistered front door.
Elsa paused, musing, and staring at the place across the road—then as she was upon the point of walking away and forgetting all about the scheme Clive Hexley himself appeared at the top of the steps, the door swinging wide behind him. He was dressed in grey slacks and an open-necked shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Immediately he came hurrying across to her, a welcoming smile on his clear-featured face.
“I saw you from my studio window,” he explained, shaking hands. “That scarlet hat of yours—I’d know it anywhere! You ought to have let me bring you in the car, you know. This is no place for a nice girl to wander round.”
“You seem to find it quite satisfactory,” Elsa said, as he took her aria possessively and led her across the road.
“For business, yes—but then, I’m not an attractive young woman! At night it isn’t a pleasant spot. I don’t live here, you know: I’ve a flat near Regent Street.”
Elsa found that her suspicions of him had gone. Apparently he was a genuine artist after all—there were paint spots on his white shirt—and his personality was such that she found it hard to dislike him. He kept his hand on her arm as they went up the steps, then she preceded him into a short length of dreary, grimy hall.
“Top floor,” he said, and came close behind her as she ascended.
The top floor was five stories up, and here there were two doors, both of them