branches lightly, screening her from the sun, by its just sufficient leaves. On the opposite side of the room hung a second portrait of herself with her husband and her children – a lovely Holy Family, in the Venetian manner, and in between, all round the room, at varying heights, in blotches of rose and celestial blue, hung a sumptuous
Station of the Cross
, by Tiepolo. Upon the ceiling, if one cared to look so high, some last few vestiges of the embassy might be seen – quivers, torches,roses, and all the paraphernalia of Love … But the eyes, travelling over these many obstacles, would invariably return to the Venetian portrait, spoken of, as a rule, somewhat breathlessly, as the
Madonna in the Osprey
.
Glancing from it to her hostess, Mrs Henedge had not observed the remotest resemblance yet. She was waiting … Except, she considered, for dear Sir Victor Blueharnis, a fine, dashing St Joseph, with blue, slightly bloodshot eyes, and the darling children, and the adorable Pekinese, it was decidedly a
Madeleine Lisant
. Striking, as it most unquestionably was, of Lady Georgia herself, it was not a satisfactory portrait. But how, it might pardonably be asked, was it likely to be? How was it possible for a painter to fix upon canvas anyone so elusive – he must interpret. He must paint her soul, taking care not to let her appear, as an inferior artist
might
, an overdressed capital-sin.
Lady Georgia’s face, indeed, was as sensitive as a calm sea to the passing clouds. She had variety. Often she managed to be really beautiful, and even in her plainest moments she was always interesting. Her nature, too, was as inconsistent as her face. At first sight, she was, perhaps, too individual to make any very definite impression … A single pink flower on her black frock, this afternoon, made her look, somehow, very far away.
Who can she be angling for, Mrs Henedge wondered, and for whom is At’y becoming too pronounced? Was it for poor Lord Susan, who was sick, so everyone said, of the world at three-and-twenty?
At this notion she caressed, with a finger of a creamy glove, a small bronze of a bird with a broken wing.
Mrs Henedge, the widow of that injudicious man, the Bishop of Ashringford, was considered, by those who knew her, to be Sympathy itself. His lordship, rumour reported, had fallen in love with her at first sight one morning while officiating at a friend’s cathedral when she had put him in mind of a startled deer. She was really only appropriating a hymn-book, as she had afterwards explained. Their marriage had been called a romance. Towards the end, however, the Bishop had becometoo fe-fi-fo-fum-Jack-in-the-Beanstalk altogether. She had had a horrid time; but still, she was able to speak of him always as ‘
poor, dear Leslie
’, now that he was gone. To-day, perhaps, it might be said of her that she had deserted this century, for she had hardly settled which. Wrapped in what looked to be a piece of Beauvais tapestry, she suggested a rumble of chariots, a sacking of Troy. As Lady Georgia observed, quite perceptibly, she was on the brink of … Rome.
But reflections were put to flight, as some of the angels, from the famous
Madonna
, and several of the Pekinese, came whirling into the room.
‘It ran away in Berkeley Square.’
‘She had been having ices.’
‘On her head were two very tall green feathers.’
‘The policeman went away with her parasol.’
‘She was on her way to see us.’
The children were very much excited. ‘Hush, darlings!’ Lady Georgia exclaimed. ‘And when you’re calmer, explain who it was that ran away from Berkeley Square.’
‘Grandmamma did!’
‘Who would have thought,’ said Fräulein, appearing, ‘that a one-horse cab could do
so much mischief
!’
They were returning from the large heart of Bloomsbury, where the children were frequently taken to learn deportment from the Tanagras in the British Museum. After posing meaningly as a Corinthian, or
Station of the Cross
, by Tiepolo. Upon the ceiling, if one cared to look so high, some last few vestiges of the embassy might be seen – quivers, torches,roses, and all the paraphernalia of Love … But the eyes, travelling over these many obstacles, would invariably return to the Venetian portrait, spoken of, as a rule, somewhat breathlessly, as the
Madonna in the Osprey
.
Glancing from it to her hostess, Mrs Henedge had not observed the remotest resemblance yet. She was waiting … Except, she considered, for dear Sir Victor Blueharnis, a fine, dashing St Joseph, with blue, slightly bloodshot eyes, and the darling children, and the adorable Pekinese, it was decidedly a
Madeleine Lisant
. Striking, as it most unquestionably was, of Lady Georgia herself, it was not a satisfactory portrait. But how, it might pardonably be asked, was it likely to be? How was it possible for a painter to fix upon canvas anyone so elusive – he must interpret. He must paint her soul, taking care not to let her appear, as an inferior artist
might
, an overdressed capital-sin.
Lady Georgia’s face, indeed, was as sensitive as a calm sea to the passing clouds. She had variety. Often she managed to be really beautiful, and even in her plainest moments she was always interesting. Her nature, too, was as inconsistent as her face. At first sight, she was, perhaps, too individual to make any very definite impression … A single pink flower on her black frock, this afternoon, made her look, somehow, very far away.
Who can she be angling for, Mrs Henedge wondered, and for whom is At’y becoming too pronounced? Was it for poor Lord Susan, who was sick, so everyone said, of the world at three-and-twenty?
At this notion she caressed, with a finger of a creamy glove, a small bronze of a bird with a broken wing.
Mrs Henedge, the widow of that injudicious man, the Bishop of Ashringford, was considered, by those who knew her, to be Sympathy itself. His lordship, rumour reported, had fallen in love with her at first sight one morning while officiating at a friend’s cathedral when she had put him in mind of a startled deer. She was really only appropriating a hymn-book, as she had afterwards explained. Their marriage had been called a romance. Towards the end, however, the Bishop had becometoo fe-fi-fo-fum-Jack-in-the-Beanstalk altogether. She had had a horrid time; but still, she was able to speak of him always as ‘
poor, dear Leslie
’, now that he was gone. To-day, perhaps, it might be said of her that she had deserted this century, for she had hardly settled which. Wrapped in what looked to be a piece of Beauvais tapestry, she suggested a rumble of chariots, a sacking of Troy. As Lady Georgia observed, quite perceptibly, she was on the brink of … Rome.
But reflections were put to flight, as some of the angels, from the famous
Madonna
, and several of the Pekinese, came whirling into the room.
‘It ran away in Berkeley Square.’
‘She had been having ices.’
‘On her head were two very tall green feathers.’
‘The policeman went away with her parasol.’
‘She was on her way to see us.’
The children were very much excited. ‘Hush, darlings!’ Lady Georgia exclaimed. ‘And when you’re calmer, explain who it was that ran away from Berkeley Square.’
‘Grandmamma did!’
‘Who would have thought,’ said Fräulein, appearing, ‘that a one-horse cab could do
so much mischief
!’
They were returning from the large heart of Bloomsbury, where the children were frequently taken to learn deportment from the Tanagras in the British Museum. After posing meaningly as a Corinthian, or
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