Larry returned to Christian's side.
"I hate not seeing Cousin Dick out," he began; "what a pity he gave
'em up! Why did he? You know, Christian, you were pretty rotten about
writing to me! Aunt Freddy never tells me a thing about the Hunt! I
didn't even know Cousin Dick had chucked till I saw it in _The
Field_."
Larry was staring at Christian as he spoke. He, like her was searching
for his former comrade; but, unlike her, was doing so unconsciously,
as Larry did most things: What he believed himself to be doing was
appraising her appearance from a painter's point of view. He found he
had forgotten her eyes. He tried to think of them in terms of paint;
_Brun de Bruxelles_, and a touch of cadmium, or was it _Verte
Emeraude_? Hang it! How can paint do more than suggest the colours of
a sunlit moorland pool? Was it the white hunting-tie that gave that
special "value" to her face He had forgotten how delicious in tone was
the faint colour that just tinted her cheek; so hopeless a word as
pink was not to be thought of; just a hint of _Rose Garance dore_,
might do it. And to get the drawing of those subtle outlines the
ineffable refinement of all her features. Larry put his head on one
side, and screwed up his eyes (remembering faithfully the injunctions
of "dear old Chose," _en clignant bien les yeux_) and said to himself
that she would put dear old Chose himself to his trumps, and then
maybe he wouldn't get her right!
Aloud he said, peremptorily and professionally:
"Christian, I'm going to paint you! Eight o'clock at the studio
to-morrow morning, _Ma'mselle, s'il vous plait_!"
Christian's response was closured by a wild outcry from the wood,
hounds and horn lifting up their voices together in sudden delirium.
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