Reflected Glory. John Russell Fearn
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to a show of some kind. Only with so many other things happening I’d completely forgotten all about him.”
“You had, eh?” Clive took her arm as they resumed walking. He had the feeling that there was something wrong here. Surely no girl could completely forget the man to whom she was all but engaged? It was more suggestive of her so timing things that they had been bound to meet him, which had given her the chance to snub him. Which seemed to throw a not altogether pleasant sidelight on Elsa’s character.
“He’s a commercial,” Elsa explained presently. “Grocery, or something. I’ve known him for years, and since I’ve lived a pretty secluded sort of life he seemed to be about the only man near my own age with whom I came in contact. He used to call at the house when my parents were alive, for grocery orders. We became friends and....” She raised a shoulder negatively. “Well, I really had seriously considered becoming engaged to him. He’d asked me often enough. Then I met you and he went clean out of my mind.”
“Uh-huh,” Clive murmured, and be was perfectly willing to admit that the emotional impact could have banished all other thoughts from Elsa’s mind.
“He’s a dull chap,” Elsa sighed. “Incredibly dull. He plods, whereas I like to trip. I don’t think you can ever escape from yourself by just plodding, do you?”
“Having never tried to escape from myself—which seems to be a passion with you—I can’t say,” Clive answered. Then he laughed slightly. “Y’know, Elsa, come to think of it, we seem to have upset two people with our affairs. Babs Vane, and now this chap. Too bad, of course, but after all they shouldn’t take so much for granted.”
They both became silent again, and it was a quietness in which they finished their journey to the village, Elsa leading the way along the high street to the estate agent’s office. Across his window was a string of qualifications which in any modern town would have excited amusement—AUCTIONEER, REAL ESTATE, REMOVALS, PORTERING, DECORATING.
“Apparently the ‘Admirable Crichton’,” Clive commented, grinning.
Elsa smiled and seized the knob of the office’s front door; then she frowned in annoyance, studying a card behind the glass. It stated briefly: AWAY ARRANGING FUNERAL. BACK FRIDAY.
“Which,” Clive sighed, “seems to be that! Now what do you do? Leave him a note?”
“I can’t do that; there are too many items. I’d be here all night writing them out.... No,” Elsa decided, “I’ll telephone him from London tomorrow. That’ll be good enough.” She glanced at her watch. “And if we want to catch that six-forty train for Guildford with the London connection we’d better hurry. Come on—the station’s half a mile up the street yet.”
CHAPTER FOUR
That evening Elsa saw the flat in Marton Street and also realized from its smallness why it was necessary for Clive to start an immediate hunt for a larger one in readiness for when they were married. The remainder of the evening they spent in a night spot of Clive’s own choosing, and towards midnight they parted—Elsa to her hotel and Clive to his flat.
At nine the following morning he called for her with his car and drove her out to his Chelsea studio. Having achieved his object of becoming engaged to her he seemed convinced that the distraction of her presence would no longer worry him in completing the portrait of her.
Another form of distraction was waiting outside the studio door, however, as the two discovered when they had mounted to the fifth floor.
“Hello, Clive,” Barbara Vane greeted, with a kind of sulky friendliness.
“Huh! The prodigal!” Clive exclaimed, gazing at her as he fumbled for his keys. “What brought you back, anyway? I thought you’d gone out of my life forever.”
“Anybody is entitled to second thoughts,” Barbara answered, and glanced at Elsa. “Morning, Elsa,” she added briefly.
Elsa did not reply. She just gazed, coldly.
Clive opened the door and the two women went into the wide, glass-roofed expanse ahead of him. As he tossed down his hat he studied them, feeling very much as though he were watching two tigresses sharpening their claws for battle.
“Just what is the reason for this about-face?” Elsa asked at length, removing her hat and coat. “If you have the idea that your coming back will break things up between Clive and myself you’re vastly mistaken. See for yourself....”
Barbara languidly contemplated the bulging diamond on Elsa’s finger. Then she removed her coat and threw it over a chair back.
“I didn’t expect anything else but a ring after seeing the way Clive had fallen for you,” she said. “And, in any case I don’t care. That’s all washed up.... But I got to thinking. I’m not exactly reeking with money, even if Clive is—and, Clive, you did say something about my running out on my contract?”
“Yes,” he agreed bluntly. “But if that’s all that’s worrying you I’ll release you from it and pay you up to date.”
Barbara said quietly, “You’ve half a dozen pictures unfinished with me as the model. What do you propose to do with them? Throw them on the ash-heap?”
“Elsa will take your place. We’ve already arranged that.”
The blonde girl considered Elsa with cynical attention. A flush came into Elsa’s pale cheeks.
“What’s the matter?” she demanded. “I’ve as good a figure as you, haven’t I?”
“I wasn’t thinking of that: I was studying your features. You can’t change those in the paintings you’ve done, Clive: only I will do, and you know it. And need I remind you that some of those paintings are commissioned? They’re not just for you to throw about as you like.”
Clive lighted a cigarette and mused for a moment.
“Yes, that’s true,” he confessed. “Truth to tell, I’ve been so concentrated on this portrait of Elsa I’d overlooked all the other stuff.”
“Then start remembering it,” Barbara advised. “I’m no business manager but at least I know how to keep you on the right track—and I hope your fiancée will manage half as well,” she added dryly. “The completion of those pictures means a good deal of money for you—and to me it also means a good deal in prestige, beside the fee to which I’m entitled.”
“Prestige?” Clive repeated, puzzled.
Barbara spread her hands. “I have to find another job as a model somewhere, don’t I? When I apply for it I want to be able to point to these commissioned portraits with myself as the model. You owe me that much, Clive, even if only in the sense of a reference.”
“I think you’ve something more behind this,” Elsa said bluntly, “and whatever it is I don’t like it.”
“I think that whatever happens we’ll never like each other very much,” Barbara commented, with a frank gaze.
“All right, all right, wait a minute,” Clive insisted, bothered by the vision of woman-trouble on his hands. “Let me say the last word since I’m the artist concerned. As usual, Babs, you’ve got the right business slant on it. Very well, I’ll complete the pictures in which you are posed, pay you up, and that finishes everything. Right?”
“Right,” Barbara agreed. “I’ll go and prepare.”
She turned and hurried into the adjoining dressing room. Elsa watched the door close and then swung back to Clive as he took off his coat and began to roll up his sleeves.
“What’s the idea of giving her preference over me?” she asked angrily. “We came here to finish my portrait—and instead you’re swayed by a few words on her part and forget all about me!”
“No, dear, it isn’t that.” Clive patted her shoulder gently. “You see, I happen to know Babs better than you