The Magician by W. Somerset Maugham (ebook reader macos TXT) 📕

her clothes, though they cost much more than she could afford, were always beautiful. Her taste was so great, her tact so sure, that she was able to make the most of herself. She was determined that if people called her ugly they should be forced in the same breath to confess that she was perfectly gowned. Susie’s talent for dress was remarkable, and it was due to her influence that Margaret was arrayed always in the latest mode. The girl’s taste inclined to be artistic, and her sense of colour was apt to run away with her discretion. Except for the display of Susie’s firmness, she would scarcely have resisted her desire to wear nondescript garments of violent hue. But the older woman expressed herself with decision.

“My dear, you won’t draw any the worse for wearing a well-made corset, and to surround your body with bands of grey flannel will certainly not increase your talent.”

“But the fashion is so hideous,” smiled Margaret.

“Fiddlesticks! The fashion is always beautiful. Last year it was beautiful to wear a hat like a porkpie tipped over your nose; and next year, for all I know, it will be beautiful to wear a bonnet like a sitz-bath at the back of your head. Art has nothing to do with a smart frock, and whether a high-heeled pointed shoe commends itself or not to the painters in the quarter, it’s the only thing in which a woman’s foot looks really nice.”

Susie Boyd vowed that she would not live with Margaret at all unless she let her see to the buying of her things.

“And when you’re married, for heaven’s sake ask me to stay with you four times a year, so that I can see after your clothes. You’ll never keep your husband’s affection if you trust to your own judgment.”

Miss Boyd’s reward had come the night before, when Margaret, coming home from dinner with Arthur, had repeated an observation of his.

“How beautifully you’re dressed!” he had said. “I was rather afraid you’d be wearing art-serges.”

“Of course you didn’t tell him that I insisted on buying every stitch you’d got on,” cried Susie.

“Yes, I did,” answered Margaret simply. “I told him I had no taste at all, but that you were responsible for everything.”

“That was the least you could do,” answered Miss Boyd.

But her heart went out to Margaret, for the trivial incident showed once more how frank the girl was. She knew quite well that few of her friends, though many took advantage of her matchless taste, would have made such an admission to the lover who congratulated them on the success of their costume.

There was a knock at the door, and Arthur came in.

“This is the fairy prince,” said Margaret, bringing him to her friend.

“I’m glad to see you in order to thank you for all you’ve done for Margaret,” he smiled, taking the proffered hand.

Susie remarked that he looked upon her with friendliness, but with a certain vacancy, as though too much engrossed in his beloved really to notice anyone else; and she wondered how to make conversation with a man who was so manifestly absorbed. While Margaret busied herself with the preparations for tea, his eyes followed her movements with a doglike, touching devotion. They travelled from her smiling mouth to her deft hands. It seemed that he had never seen anything so ravishing as the way in which she bent over the kettle. Margaret felt that he was looking at her, and turned round. Their eyes met, and they stood for an appreciable time gazing at one another silently.

“Don’t be a pair of perfect idiots,” cried Susie gaily. “I’m dying for my tea.”

The lovers laughed and reddened. It struck Arthur that he should say something polite.

“I hope you’ll show me your sketches afterwards, Miss Boyd. Margaret says they’re awfully good.”

“You really needn’t think it in the least necessary to show any interest in me,” she replied bluntly.

“She draws the most delightful caricatures,” said Margaret. “I’ll bring you a horror of yourself, which she’ll do the moment you leave us.”

“Don’t be so spiteful, Margaret.”

Miss Boyd could not help thinking all the same that Arthur Burdon would caricature very well. Margaret was right when she said that he was not handsome, but his clean-shaven face was full of interest to so passionate an observer of her kind. The lovers were silent, and Susie had the conversation to herself. She chattered without pause and had the satisfaction presently of capturing their attention. Arthur seemed to become aware of her presence, and laughed heartily at her burlesque account of their fellow-students at Colarossi’s. Meanwhile Susie examined him. He was very tall and very thin. His frame had a Yorkshireman’s solidity, and his bones were massive. He missed being ungainly only through the serenity of his self-reliance. He had high cheekbones and a long, lean face. His nose and mouth were large, and his skin was sallow. But there were two characteristics which fascinated her, an imposing strength of purpose and a singular capacity for suffering. This was a man who knew his mind and was determined to achieve his desire; it refreshed her vastly after the extreme weakness of the young painters with whom of late she had mostly consorted. But those quick dark eyes were able to express an anguish that was hardly tolerable, and the mobile mouth had a nervous intensity which suggested that he might easily suffer the very agonies of woe.

Tea was ready, and Arthur stood up to receive his cup.

“Sit down,” said Margaret. “I’ll bring you everything you want, and I know exactly how much sugar to put in. It pleases me to wait on you.”

With the grace that marked all her movements she walked cross the studio, the filled cup in one hand and the plate of cakes in the other. To Susie it seemed that he was overwhelmed with gratitude by Margaret’s condescension. His eyes were soft with indescribable tenderness as he took the sweetmeats she gave him. Margaret