Red Money by Fergus Hume (read dune .txt) 📕

Brushes,  While Another Chapter 2 (In The Wood) Pg 14

Brush Was In His Mouth,  And Luckily Impeded A Rather Rough Welcome. The

Look In A Pair Of Keen Blue Eyes Certainly Seemed To Resent The

Intrusion,  But At The Sight Of Miss Greeby This Irritability Changed To

A Glance Of Suspicion. Lambert,  From Old Associations,  Liked His Visitor

Very Well On The Whole,  But That Feminine Intuition,  Which All Creative

Natures Possess,  Warned Him That It Was Wise To Keep Her At Arm's

Length. She Had Never Plainly Told Her Love; But She Had Assuredly

Hinted At It More Or Less By Eye And Manner And Undue Hauntings Of His

Footsteps When In London. He Could Not Truthfully Tell Himself That He

Was Glad Of Her Unexpected Visit. For Quite Half A Minute They Stood

Staring At One Another,  And Miss Greeby's Hard Cheeks Flamed To A Poppy

Red At The Sight Of The Man She Loved.

 

"Well,  Hermit." She Observed,  When He Made No Remark. "As The Mountain

Would Not Come To Mahomet,  The Prophet Has Come To The Mountain."

 

"The Mountain Is Welcome," Said Lambert Diplomatically,  And Stood

Aside,  So That She Might Enter. Then Adopting The Bluff And Breezy,

Rough-And-Ready-Man-To-Man Attitude,  Which Miss Greeby Liked To See In

Her Friends,  He Added: "Come In,  Old Girl! It's A Pal Come To See A Pal,

Isn't It?"

 

"Rather," Assented Miss Greeby,  Although,  Woman-Like,  She Was Not

Entirely Pleased With This Unromantic Welcome. "We Played As Brats

Together,  Didn't We?

 

"Yes," She Added Meditatively,  When Following Lambert Into His Studio,

"I Think We Are As Chummy As A Man And Woman Well Can Be."

 

"True Enough. You Were Always A Good Sort,  Clara. How Well You Are

Looking--More Of A Man Than Ever."

 

"Oh,  Stop That!" Said Miss Greeby Roughly.

 

"Why?" Lambert Raised His Eyebrows. "As A Girl You Always Liked To Be

Thought Manly,  And Said Again And Again That You Wished You Were A Boy."

 

"I Find That I Am A Woman,  After All," Sighed The Visitor,  Dropping Into

A Chair And Looking Round; "With A Woman's Feelings,  Too."

 

"And Very Nice Those Feelings Are,  Since They Have Influenced You To Pay

Me A Visit In The Wilds," Remarked The Artist Imperturbably.

 

"What Are You Doing In The Wilds?"

 

"Painting," Was The Laconic Retort.

 

"So I See. Still-Life Pictures?"

 

"Not Exactly." He Pointed Toward The Easel. "Behold And Approve."

 

Chapter 2 (In The Wood) Pg 15

Miss Greeby Did Behold,  But She Certainly Did Not Approve,  Because She

Was A Woman And In Love. It Was Only A Pictured Head She Saw,  But The

Head Was That Of A Very Beautiful Girl,  Whose Face Smiled From The

Canvas In A Subtle,  Defiant Way,  As If Aware Of Its Wild Loveliness. The

Raven Hair Streamed Straightly Down To The Shoulders--For The Bust Of

The Model Was Slightly Indicated--And There,  Bunched Out Into Curls. A

Red And Yellow Handkerchief Was Knotted Round The Brows,  And Dangling

Sequins Added To Its Barbaric Appearance. Nose And Lips And Eyes,  And

Contours,  Were All Perfect,  And It Really Seemed As Though The Face Were

Idealized,  So Absolutely Did It Respond To All Canons Of Beauty. It Was

A Gypsy Countenance,  And There Lurked In Its Loveliness That Wild,

Untamed Look Which Suggested Unrestricted Roamings And The Spacious

Freedom Of The Road.

 

The Sudden,  Jealous Fear Which Surged Into Miss Greeby's Heart Climbed

To Her Throat And Choked Her Speech. But She Had Wisdom Enough To Check

Unwise Words,  And Glanced Round The Studio To Recover Her Composure. The

Room Was Small And Barely Furnished; A Couch,  Two Deep Arm-Chairs,  And A

Small Table Filled Its Limited Area. The Walls And Roof Were Painted A

Pale Green,  And A Carpet Of The Same Delicate Hue Covered The Floor. Of

Course,  There Were The Usual Painting Materials,  Brushes And Easel And

Palettes And Tubes Of Color,  Together With A Slightly Raised Platform

Near The One Window Where The Model Could Sit Or Stand. The Window

Itself Had No Curtains And Was Filled With Plain Glass,  Affording Plenty

Of Light.

 

"The Other Windows Of The Cottage Are Latticed," Said Lambert,  Seeing

His Visitor's Eyes Wander In That Direction. "I Had That Glass Put In

When I Came Here A Month Ago. No Light Can Filter Through Lattices--In

Sufficient Quantity That Is--To See The True Tones Of The Colors."

 

"Oh,  Bother The Window!" Muttered Miss Greeby Restlessly,  For She Had

Not Yet Gained Command Of Her Emotions.

 

Lambert Laughed And Looked At His Picture With His Head On One Side,  And

A Very Handsome Head It Was,  As Miss Greeby Thought. "It Bothered Me

Until I Had It Put Right,  I Assure You. But You Don't Seem Pleased With

My Crib."

 

"It's Not Good Enough For You."

 

"Since When Have I Been A Sybarite,  Clara?"

 

"I Mean You Ought To Think Of Your Position."

 

"It's Too Unpleasant To Think About," Rejoined Lambert,  Throwing Himself

On The Couch And Producing His Pipe. "May I Smoke?"

 

"Yes,  And If You Have Any Decent Cigarettes I'll Join You. Thanks!" She

Deftly Caught The Silver Case He Threw Her. "But Your Position?"

 

Chapter 2 (In The Wood) Pg 16

"Five Hundred A Year And No Occupation,  Since I Have Been Brought Up To

Neither Trade Nor Profession," Said Lambert Leisurely. "Well?"

 

"You Are The Heir To A Title And To A Large Property."

 

"Which Is Heavily Mortgaged. As To The Title"--Lambert Shrugged His

Shoulders--"Garvington's Wife May Have Children."

 

"I Don't Think So. They Have Been Married Ten Years And More. You Are

Certain To Come In For Everything."

 

"Everything Consists Of Nothing," Said The Artist Coolly.

 

"Well," Drawled Miss Greeby,  Puffing Luxuriously At Her Cigarette,  Which

Was Turkish And Soothing,  "Nothing May Turn Into Something When These

Mortgages Are Cleared Off."

 

"Who Is Going To Clear Them Off?"

 

"Sir Hubert Pine."

 

Lambert's Brows Contracted,  As She Knew They Would When This Name Was

Mentioned,  And He Carefully Attended To Filling His Pipe So As To Avoid

Meeting Her Hard,  Inquisitive Eyes. "Pine Is A Man Of Business,  And If

He Pays Off The Mortgages He Will Take Over The Property As Security. I

Don't See That Garvington Will Be Any The Better Off In That Case."

 

"Lambert," Said Miss Greeby Very Decidedly,  And Determined To Know

Precisely What He Felt Like,  "Garvington Only Allowed His Sister To

Marry Sir Hubert Because He Was Rich. I Don't Know For Certain,  Of

Course,  But I Should Think It Probable That He Made An Arrangement With

Pine To Have Things Put Straight Because Of The Marriage."

 

"Possible And Probable," Said The Artist Shortly,  And Wincing; "But Old

Friend As You Are,  Clara,  I Don't See The Necessity Of Talking About

Business Which Does Not Concern Me. Speak To Garvington."

 

"Agnes Concerns You."

 

"How Objectionably Direct You Are," Exclaimed Lambert In A Vexed Tone.

"And How Utterly Wrong. Agnes Does Not Concern Me In The Least. I Loved

Her,  But As She Chose To Marry Pine,  Why There's No More To Be Said."

 

"If There Was Nothing More To Be Said," Observed Miss Greeby Shrewdly,

"You Would Not Be Burying Yourself Here."

 

"Why Not? I Am Fond Of Nature And Art,  And My Income Is Not Enough To

Permit My Living Decently In London. I Had To Leave The Army Because I

Was So Poor. Garvington Has Given Me This Cottage Rent Free,  So I'm

Jolly Enough With My Painting And With Mrs. Tribb As Housekeeper And

Cook. She's A Perfect Dream Of A Cook," Ended Lambert Thoughtfully.

 

Miss Greeby Shook Her Red Head. "You Can't Deceive Me."

Chapter 2 (In The Wood) Pg 17

"Who Wants To,  Anyhow?" Demanded The Man,  Unconsciously American.

 

"You Do. You Wish To Make Out That You Prefer To Camp Here Instead Of

Admitting That You Would Like To Be At The Manor Because Agnes--"

 

Lambert Jumped Up Crossly. "Oh,  Leave Agnes Out Of The Question. She Is

Pine's Wife,  So That Settles Things. It's No Use Crying For The Moon,

And--"

 

"Then You Still Wish For The Moon," Interpolated The Woman Quickly.

 

"Not Even You Have The Right To Ask Me Such A Question," Replied Lambert

In A Quiet And Decisive Tone. "Let Us Change The Subject."

 

Miss Greeby Pointed To The Beautiful Face Smiling On The Easel. "I

Advise You To," She Said Significantly.

 

"You Seem To Have Come Here To Give Me Good Advice."

 

"Which You Won't Take," She Retorted.

 

"Because It Isn't Needed."

 

"A Man's A Man And A Woman's A Woman."

 

"That's As True As Taxes,  As Mr. Barkis Observed,  If You Are Acquainted

With The Writings Of The Late Charles Dickens. Well?"

 

Again Miss Greeby Pointed To The Picture. "She's Very Pretty."

 

"I Shouldn't Have Painted Her Otherwise."

 

"Oh,  Then The Original Of That Portrait Does Exist?"

 

"Could You Call It A Portrait If An Original Didn't Exist?" Demanded

The Young Man Tartly. "Since You Want To Know So Much,  You May As Well

Come To The Gypsy Encampment On The Verge Of The Wood And Satisfy

Yourself." He Threw On A Panama Hat,  With A Cross Look. "Since When Have

You Come To The Conclusion That I Need A Dry Nurse?"

 

"Oh,  Don't Talk Bosh!" Said Miss Greeby Vigorously,  And Springing To Her

Feet. "You Take Me At The Foot Of The Letter And Too Seriously. I Only

Came Here To See How My Old Pal Was Getting On."

 

"I'm All Right And As Jolly As A Sandboy. Now Are You Satisfied?"

 

"Quite. Only Don't Fall In Love With The Original Of Your Portrait."

 

"It's Rather Late In The Day To Warn Me," Said Lambert Dryly,  "For I

Have Known The Girl For Six Months. I Met Her In A Gypsy Caravan When On

A Walking Tour,  And Offered To Paint Her. She Is Down Here With Her

People,  And You Can See Her