pippa became part of the life of the six artists of the courtyard, and they all wondered, if they ever thought about the matter at all, however they had managed to get on without her.
she seemed to belong in some special way to barnabas. that fact was one of mutual recognition. michael found himself stopping suddenly in the middle of his cynical little speeches when she was present. it is impossible to be cynical with a child’s eyes fixed on one, drinking in every word. dan kept her supplied with chocolates, and gave her a grey kitten. jasper painted her a picture of the blessed virgin. it was the first painting he had done for weeks past without the memory of the house in chiswick coming as an interruption to his thoughts. the picture, too, held a tenderness not seen in his previous paintings. paul, for a wonder, allowed her to see his unfinished work, and found amusement in her naïve criticisms. one criticism—to be related presently—was somewhat of a revelation. alan studied her deeply, saying that the innocent unfolding of a child’s mind was one of the greatest marvels of creation. her remarks on colour honestly interested him. and in them barnabas felt more than ever convinced that she was the child of his friend philippe kostolitz.
she used to announce quite gravely that people were like colours. miss mason she designated as “couleur de rose.” barnabas himself she said was gold “all sparkling like sunshine.” paul she insisted was like the purple light that fell across the river at night. dan was green like the leaves of chrysanthemum foliage. alan was the colour of the sea. michael was grey and red. and she refused to assign any colour to jasper. but when coaxed by barnabas she confessed it was because he was quite grey, and no pretty colour at all.
one day about the middle of february pippa lunched with paul. he announced that he wished her to see the portrait of the duchessa di corleone. the duchessa herself, who had been away since christmas, was coming for what would probably be a last sitting at two o’clock that afternoon.
“well?” said paul, standing near the luncheon table while pippa gazed upon the portrait, “what do you think of it?”
pippa wrinkled up her forehead.
“i don’t know,” she said slowly, and she came across to the table looking at paul with perplexed eyes.
“evidently,” said paul, a trifle disappointed, “it doesn’t meet with your approval.”
“i don’t know,” said pippa again, still looking puzzled. and then she saw the luncheon table. “chicken and meringues”—she rolled the “r” in her funny way—“how lovely!”
“the lunch,” said paul, “unquestionably appeals to you far more than the portrait.”
pippa did not reply. but during the meal she kept looking from the portrait to paul, as if she might find in his face some explanation of her perplexity.
they were drinking their coffee, which pippa loved, when paul’s man announced the duchessa.
the whole atmosphere of the studio seemed suddenly to sparkle with her entrance. paul sprang to his feet. there was a light in his eyes of which the meanest intelligence might have recognized the interpretation.
“i am punctual to the moment,” she said. “and how are you? it is six weeks since we’ve met.” then she saw pippa.
“and who,” she asked, “is this?”
“pippa,” said paul gravely, “may i introduce you to the duchessa di corleone.”
pippa held out her hand.
“pippa?” queried the duchessa, with the tiniest and most adorable lift of her eyebrows.
“just pippa,” said paul.
sara sat down. “finish your coffee,” she said. “and may i have a cup?”
paul seized the kettle. it was the first time she would have partaken of food or drink in his studio. it marked, in his mind, an epoch.
“don’t make fresh coffee,” she begged.
“it is a pleasure,” he said. “it is one of the few achievements of which i am justly proud.”
pippa was gazing at the duchessa with wide grey eyes. the perplexity in them had vanished.
“well, pippa,” asked sara, “and what do you think of my portrait?”
“i know now,” said pippa firmly. “ze couleur is wrong.”
paul, who was stirring the coffee in a jug, paused a moment to look at her.
“the colour?” he queried.
pippa nodded. “the picture,” she said, “is red. she”—pippa looked at the duchessa—“is blue. oh, but very blue, like—like zat.” she pointed towards a sapphire vase on paul’s mantelpiece.
paul and sara looked at each other. there was the tiniest—just the very tiniest—look of triumph in paul’s eyes.
sara laughed outright. “mr. treherne,” she said, “aren’t you longing to say ‘i told you so’?”
“i think,” replied paul, “pippa has said it for me.”
sara turned to pippa.
“then,” she said, “it is the colour of the dress that is wrong?”
again pippa nodded.
“sometimes ze dresses zey not matter,” she said thoughtfully, “but for you ze real—oh, but it hurt.” she clasped her hands against her heart with a little tragic gesture.
“what’s to be done?” asked sara as paul handed her the coffee.
“re-paint the dress, and the whole portrait if necessary,” he replied promptly.
“oh, but the time, and your trouble!” cried sara. “i couldn’t think of it. besides, it was my own fault,” she added contritely.
it struck neither of them as odd that they should so implicitly accept pippa’s criticism.
“i shall only,” said paul, “be doing what i originally wished to do, if you will forgive me for saying so. the question is whether you will be too bored with further sittings?”
a faint rose-colour stole over the ivory of the duchessa’s face.
“on the contrary,” she said lightly, “i shall be very happy. i have”—she paused the merest fraction of a second—“not been bored at all.”
she drank her coffee and put down the cup. pippa got up from her chair. she knew the moment to make herself scarce. long acquaintance [pg 166]with studios and the work of artists had taught her.
she held out her hand to the duchessa.
“i like you,” she said. “i like you ver’ much. please come to tea wis me one day—you and monsieur paul.”
“but,” said the duchessa, “christopher is coming for me at half-past three.”
paul’s face, which had been very gay, fell suddenly. christopher’s name troubled him. he was on such delightfully—for him—easy terms with the duchessa.
“but bring monsieur christopher too,” said pippa calmly.
the duchessa looked at paul.
“but where does she live?” she asked. “and may we accept this invitation wholesale?”
“by all means,” paul assured her. “pippa lives in studio number seven with miss mason, don’t you, pippa? and we all invade that studio at any hour. miss mason ties up cuts, finds new servants for us when our old ones get out of hand, administers hot concoctions of her own brewing when any of us have colds, in short, mothers us all round. and pippa gives us excellent advice as to the colour of our socks and ties. we really don’t care to think of what we were before aunt olive and pippa took us in hand.”
“so you will come?” said pippa, standing near the door.
paul went over to open it for her.
“yes, we’ll come,” he said.
“the duchessa, you, and monsieur christopher,” said pippa gaily.
“oh, yes,” said paul, an odd inflexion in his voice, “no doubt monsieur christopher will come too.”
he held the door open, and pippa went out.
then he came back to the duchessa. she had heard the inflexion in his voice, and a little light of comprehension had sprung to her eyes.
“ah!” she breathed softly to herself. then she looked up at paul.
“and now,” she said, “are you ready for the metamorphosis—to re-paint me as a blue lady?”
