"In those days," Mr. Purcey heard him say, "the congeries of men were known as rookeries. The expression was hardly just towards that handsome bird."Mr. Purcey touched him hastily on the arm.
"I've got my car here, sir," he said. "Do let me put you down!"Telling the story afterwards, he had spoken thus:
"The old chap knew where he lived right enough; but dash me if Ibelieve he noticed that I was taking him there in my car--I had the A. i. Damyer out. That's how I came to make the acquaintance of these Dallisons. He's the writer, you know, and she paints--rather the new school--she admires Harpignies. Well, when I got there in the car I found Dallison in the garden. Of course I was careful not to put my foot into it. I told him: 'I found this old gentleman wandering about. I've just brought him back in my car.' Who should the old chap turn out to be but her father! They were awfully obliged to me. Charmin' people, but very what d'you call it 'fin de siecle'--like all these professors, these artistic pigs--seem to know rather a queer set, advanced people, and all that sort of cuckoo, always talkin' about the poor, and societies, and new religions, and that kind of thing."Though he had since been to see them several times, the Dallisons had never robbed him of the virtuous feeling of that good action--they had never let him know that he had brought home, not, as he imagined, a lunatic, but merely a philosopher.
It had been somewhat of a quiet shock to him to find Mr. Stone close to the doorway when he entered Bianca's studio that afternoon; for though he had seen him since the encounter in Kensington Gardens, and knew that he was writing a book, he still felt that he was not quite the sort of old man that one ought to meet about. He had at once begun to tell him of the hanging of the Shoreditch murderer, as recorded in the evening papers. Mr. Stone's reception of that news had still further confrmed his original views. When all the guests were gone--with the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Dallison and Miss Dallison, "that awfully pretty girl," and the young man "who was always hangin' about her"--he had approached his hostess for some quiet talk. She stood listening to him, very well bred, with just that habitual spice of mockery in her smile, which to Mr. Purcey's eyes made her "a very strikin'-lookin' woman, but rather---" There he would stop, for it required a greater psychologist than he to describe a secret disharmony which a little marred her beauty. Due to some too violent cross of blood, to an environment too unsuited, to what not--it was branded on her. Those who knew Bianca Dallison better than Mr. Purcey were but too well aware of this fugitive, proud spirit permeating one whose beauty would otherwise have passed unquestioned.
She was a little taller than Cecilia, her figure rather fuller and more graceful, her hair darker, her eyes, too, darker and more deeply set, her cheek-bones higher, her colouring richer. That spirit of the age, Disharmony, must have presided when a child so vivid and dark-coloured was christened Bianca.
Mr. Purcey, however, was not a man who allowed the finest shades of feeling to interfere with his enjoyments. She was a "strikin'-lookin' woman," and there was, thanks to Harpignies, a link between them.
"Your father and I, Mrs. Dallison, can't quite understand each other," he began. "Our views of life don't seem to hit it off exactly.""Really," murmured Bianca; "I should have thought that you'd have got on so well.""He's a little bit too--er--scriptural for me, perhaps," said Mr. Purcey, with some delicacy.
"Did we never tell you," Bianca answered softly, "that my father was a rather well--known man of science before his illness?""Ah!" replied Mr. Purcey, a little puzzled; "that, of course. D'you know, of all your pictures, Mrs. Dallison, I think that one you call 'The Shadow' is the most rippin'. There's a something about it that gets hold of you. That was the original, wasn't it, at your Christmas party--attractive girl--it's an awf'ly good likeness."Bianca's face had changed, but Mr. Purcey was not a man to notice a little thing like that.
"If ever you want to part with it," he said, "I hope you'll give me a chance. I mean it'd be a pleasure to me to have it. I think it'll be worth a lot of money some day."Bianca did not answer, and Mr. Purcey, feeling suddenly a little awkward, said: "I've got my car waiting. I must be off--really."Shaking hands with all of them, he went away.
When the door had closed behind his back, a universal sigh went up.
It was followed by a silence, which Hilary broke.
"We'll smoke, Stevie, if Cis doesn't mind."
Stephen Dallison placed a cigarette between his moustacheless lips, always rather screwed up, and ready to nip with a smile anything that might make him feel ridiculous.
"Phew!" he said. "Our friend Purcey becomes a little tedious. He seems to take the whole of Philistia about with him.""He's a very decent fellow," murmured Hilary.
"A bit heavy, surely!" Stephen Dallison's face, though also long and narrow, was not much like his brother's. His eyes, though not unkind, were far more scrutinising, inquisitive, and practical; his hair darker, smoother.
