Chapter 14 - Page 2

Marvell rose from a monumental gilt
arm-chair of pseudo-Venetian design and swept her long draperies to Van
Degen's side.

"He might, then--for the privilege of painting you!" the latter
rejoined, transferring his bulging stare from the counterfeit to the
original. His eyes rested on Mrs. Marvell's in what seemed a quick
exchange of understanding; then they passed on to a critical inspection
of her person. She was dressed for the sitting in something faint and
shining, above which the long curves of her neck looked dead white in
the cold light of the studio; and her hair, all a shadowless rosy gold,
was starred with a hard glitter of diamonds.

"The privilege of painting me? Mercy, _I_ have to pay for being painted!
He'll tell you he's giving me the picture--but what do you suppose this
cost?" She laid a finger-tip on her shimmering dress.

Van Degen's eye rested on her with cold enjoyment. "Does the price come
higher than the dress?"

She ignored the allusion. "Of course what they charge for is the cut--"

"What they cut away? That's what they ought to charge for, ain't it,
Popp?"

Undine took this with cool disdain, but Mr. Popple's sensibilities were
offended.

"My dear Peter--really--the artist, you understand, sees all this as a
pure question of colour, of pattern; and it's a point of honour with the
MAN to steel himself against the personal seduction."

Mr. Van Degen received this protest with a sound of almost vulgar
derision, but Undine thrilled agreeably under the glance which her
portrayer cast on her. She was flattered by Van Degen's notice, and
thought his impertinence witty; but she glowed inwardly at Mr. Popple's
eloquence. After more than three years of social experience she still
thought he "spoke beautifully," like the hero of a novel, and she
ascribed to jealousy the lack of seriousness with which her husband's
friends regarded him. His conversation struck her as intellectual, and
his eagerness to have her share his thoughts was in flattering contrast
to Ralph's growing tendency to keep his to himself. Popple's homage
seemed the, subtlest proof of what Ralph could have made of her if he
had "really understood" her. It was but another step to ascribe all her
past mistakes to the lack of such understanding; and the satisfaction
derived from this thought had once impelled her to tell the artist that
he alone knew how to rouse her 'higher self.' He had assured her that
the memory of her words would thereafter hallow his life; and as he
hinted that it had been stained by the darkest errors she was moved at
the thought of the purifying influence she exerted.

Thus it was