elsewhere?’ she flamed.
He shook his head at her. ‘Tut, tut. Have you no sense of humour?’
Of course she had a sense of humour, but every remark he made seemed a veiled insult.
‘Not when you’re around,’ she answered him.
‘Not even when I pay you a compliment?’
‘What compliment?’
‘On your painting. Or are you hard of hearing?’
She drew a deep breath. ‘Thank you, but I don’t need your compliments on my work.’ He had sounded condescending, anyway, she thought. ‘In any case, it’s not finished yet and I’m far from satisfied with it.’
‘There speaks the true artist,’ he said.
She was finding his towering presence overwhelming. In addition the sun was climbing rapidly, and the mist thinning before she had got the effect she wanted.
‘Will you please go away?’ she said vehemently.
‘With pleasure,’ he answered cuttingly. ‘I’ve rarely if ever come across anyone so consistently rude as you.’
She felt conscience-stricken, but was not in the mood to argue. She was not usually rude to people. It was just that this man seemed to goad her all the time and indeed, bring out the worst in her. But at the present moment she was in a fever of anxiety to get her picture right.
Feverishly, she mixed her colours. This golden mist was not easy to capture.
‘Perhaps you haven’t met many artists, Mr. Hamilton,’ was all the excuse she felt she could offer at the moment.
‘I see. Taking refuge in artistic temperament.’
She swung round, sorely tempted to run her loaded paintbrush across his face.
‘Think what you like—but please leave me alone to get on with my work!’ she almost yelled at him.
‘Don’t worry,’ he ground out. ‘Just keep out of this inclosure in future, that’s all.’
He turned and strode away with long, easy strides. If she had had anything to hand other than her precious palette she would have thrown it at his retreating back. But then she found herself thinking what a splendid figure he had and how nice it would be if—
She uttered a few mild swear words and turned to her canvas. Keep out of the inclosure indeed! She would see the D.O. about that.
Then she became lost in the object of her creation. At last she had the right mixture of colour. Now all it needed was the exact amount on to the canvas. It was going to be one of the best things she had done, she told herself.
All too soon the penetration of the sun had dispersed the mist. Ruth rinsed her brushes in the turpentine and wiped them on a piece of rag and scraped precious blobs of paint from her palette and deposited them in a shallow, airtight tin she kept for the purpose. The rest of the picture she could finish indoors.
She walked slowly back home, feeling drained as she often did when she had concentrated hard on a new and difficult piece of work. In such circumstances, her emotions, too, became involved—the excitement, the tension, the desperate creative urge. All were taxing. And this morning she had had the additional element in the figure of Ross Hamilton. Why did he have to appear always at the wrong moment? Why did he have to appear at all? Why couldn’t she like him, be ready and willing to worship at his feet as some of the other women in her circle apparently were? And why did they always do verbal battle each time they met? One after the other, the questions chased each other around her brain.
Hunger now gnawing at her stomach, she let herself in the house. As usual, on these early morning excursions she had had no breakfast. Perhaps that was why she was feeling low-spirited, depressed. Or was it all the fault of that odious man Ross Hamilton?
She wandered disconsolately into the kitchen, thinking nostalgically of the days when her father was here. How trouble-free were those days. Now she had the problem of finding a house, keeping the present house and garden in some kind of order and still paint enough pictures to earn a living. And on top of all this, she had
He shook his head at her. ‘Tut, tut. Have you no sense of humour?’
Of course she had a sense of humour, but every remark he made seemed a veiled insult.
‘Not when you’re around,’ she answered him.
‘Not even when I pay you a compliment?’
‘What compliment?’
‘On your painting. Or are you hard of hearing?’
She drew a deep breath. ‘Thank you, but I don’t need your compliments on my work.’ He had sounded condescending, anyway, she thought. ‘In any case, it’s not finished yet and I’m far from satisfied with it.’
‘There speaks the true artist,’ he said.
She was finding his towering presence overwhelming. In addition the sun was climbing rapidly, and the mist thinning before she had got the effect she wanted.
‘Will you please go away?’ she said vehemently.
‘With pleasure,’ he answered cuttingly. ‘I’ve rarely if ever come across anyone so consistently rude as you.’
She felt conscience-stricken, but was not in the mood to argue. She was not usually rude to people. It was just that this man seemed to goad her all the time and indeed, bring out the worst in her. But at the present moment she was in a fever of anxiety to get her picture right.
Feverishly, she mixed her colours. This golden mist was not easy to capture.
‘Perhaps you haven’t met many artists, Mr. Hamilton,’ was all the excuse she felt she could offer at the moment.
‘I see. Taking refuge in artistic temperament.’
She swung round, sorely tempted to run her loaded paintbrush across his face.
‘Think what you like—but please leave me alone to get on with my work!’ she almost yelled at him.
‘Don’t worry,’ he ground out. ‘Just keep out of this inclosure in future, that’s all.’
He turned and strode away with long, easy strides. If she had had anything to hand other than her precious palette she would have thrown it at his retreating back. But then she found herself thinking what a splendid figure he had and how nice it would be if—
She uttered a few mild swear words and turned to her canvas. Keep out of the inclosure indeed! She would see the D.O. about that.
Then she became lost in the object of her creation. At last she had the right mixture of colour. Now all it needed was the exact amount on to the canvas. It was going to be one of the best things she had done, she told herself.
All too soon the penetration of the sun had dispersed the mist. Ruth rinsed her brushes in the turpentine and wiped them on a piece of rag and scraped precious blobs of paint from her palette and deposited them in a shallow, airtight tin she kept for the purpose. The rest of the picture she could finish indoors.
She walked slowly back home, feeling drained as she often did when she had concentrated hard on a new and difficult piece of work. In such circumstances, her emotions, too, became involved—the excitement, the tension, the desperate creative urge. All were taxing. And this morning she had had the additional element in the figure of Ross Hamilton. Why did he have to appear always at the wrong moment? Why did he have to appear at all? Why couldn’t she like him, be ready and willing to worship at his feet as some of the other women in her circle apparently were? And why did they always do verbal battle each time they met? One after the other, the questions chased each other around her brain.
Hunger now gnawing at her stomach, she let herself in the house. As usual, on these early morning excursions she had had no breakfast. Perhaps that was why she was feeling low-spirited, depressed. Or was it all the fault of that odious man Ross Hamilton?
She wandered disconsolately into the kitchen, thinking nostalgically of the days when her father was here. How trouble-free were those days. Now she had the problem of finding a house, keeping the present house and garden in some kind of order and still paint enough pictures to earn a living. And on top of all this, she had
Similar Books
