Chapter 21

CHAPTER XXI.

Perched on its four stone mushrooms, the little granary stood two
or three feet above the grass of the green close. Beneath it
there was a perpetual shade and a damp growth of long, luxuriant
grasses. Here, in the shadow, in the green dampness, a family of
white ducks had sought shelter from the afternoon sun. Some
stood, preening themselves, some reposed with their long bellies
pressed to the ground, as though the cool grass were water.
Little social noises burst fitfully forth, and from time to time
some pointed tail would execute a brilliant Lisztian tremolo.
Suddenly their jovial repose was shattered. A prodigious thump
shook the wooden flooring above their heads; the whole granary
trembled, little fragments of dirt and crumbled wood rained down
among them. With a loud, continuous quacking the ducks rushed
out from beneath this nameless menace, and did not stay their
flight till they were safely in the farmyard.

"Don't lose your temper," Anne was saying. "Listen! You've
frightened the ducks. Poor dears! no wonder." She was sitting
sideways in a low, wooden chair. Her right elbow rested on the
back of the chair and she supported her cheek on her hand. Her
long, slender body drooped into curves of a lazy grace. She was
smiling, and she looked at Gombauld through half-closed eyes.

"Damn you!" Gombauld repeated, and stamped his foot again. He
glared at her round the half-finished portrait on the easel.

"Poor ducks!" Anne repeated. The sound of their quacking was
faint in the distance; it was inaudible.

"Can't you see you make me lose my time?" he asked. "I can't
work with you dangling about distractingly like this."

"You'd lose less time if you stopped talking and stamping your
feet and did a little painting for a change. After all, what am
I dangling about for, except to be painted?"

Gombauld made a noise like a growl. "You're awful," he said,
with conviction. "Why do you ask me to come and stay here? Why
do you tell me you'd like me to paint your portrait?"

"For the simple reasons that I like you--at least, when you're in
a good temper--and that I think you're a good painter."

"For the simple reason"--Gombauld mimicked her voice--"that you
want me to make love to you and, when I do, to have the amusement
of running away."

Anne threw back her head and laughed. "So you think it amuses me
to have to evade your advances! So like a man! If you only knew
how gross and awful and boring men are when they try to make love
and you don't want them to make love! If you could only see
yourselves through our eyes!"

Gombauld picked up his palette and brushes and attacked his
canvas with the ardour of irritation. "I suppose