The Complete Short Stories of Evelyn Waugh - Evelyn Waugh [5]
“These Bo’emians don’t ’alf carry on, eh, Gladys?”
In half an hour Adam has rubbed out his drawing three times. Whenever he is beginning to interest himself in some particular combination of shapes, the model raises her ball of handkerchief to her nose, and after each sniff relapses into a slightly different position. The anthracite stove glows with heat; he works on for another half hour.
THE ELEVEN O’CLOCK REST.
Most of the girls light cigarettes; the men, who have increased in number with many late arrivals, begin to congregate away from them in the corner. One of them is reading The Studio. Adam lights a pipe, and standing back, surveys his drawing with detestation.
Close up; Adam’s drawing. It is not really at all bad. In fact it is by far the best in the room; there is one which will be better at the end of the week, but at present there is nothing of it except some measurements and geometrical figures. Its author is unaware that the model is resting; he is engaged in calculating the medial section of her height in the corner of the paper.
Adam goes out on to the stairs, which are lined with women from the lower studio eating buns out of bags. He returns to the studio.
The girl who has been instructed by young Mr. Maltby comes up to him and looks at his drawing.
“Rather Monday morningish.”
That was exactly what young Mr. Maltby had said about hers.
The model resumes her pose with slight differences; the paper bags are put away, pipes are knocked out; the promising pupil is calculating the area of a rectangle.
The scene changes to
158 PONT STREET. THE LONDON HOUSE
OF MR. CHARLES AND LADY ROSEMARY QUEST.
An interior is revealed in which the producers have at last made some attempt to satisfy the social expectations of Gladys and Ada. It is true that there is very little marble and no footmen in powder and breeches, but there is nevertheless an undoubted air of grandeur about the high rooms and Louis Seize furniture, and there is a footman. The young man from Cambridge estimates the household at six thousand a year, and though somewhat overgenerous, it is a reasonable guess. Lady Rosemary’s collection of Limoges can be seen in the background.
Upstairs in her bedroom Imogen Quest is telephoning.
“What a lovely Kimony, Ada.”
Miss Philbrick comes into the upper studio at Maltby’s, where Adam is at last beginning to take some interest in his drawing.
“MISS QUEST WANTS TO SPEAK TO YOU ON THE TELEPHONE, MR. DOURE. I told her that it was against the rules for students to use the telephone except in the luncheon hour” (there is always a pathetic game of make-believe at Maltby’s played endlessly by Miss Philbrick and old Mr. Maltby, in which they pretend that somewhere there is a code of rules which all must observe), “but she says that it is most important. I do wish you would ask your friends not to ring you up in the mornings.”
Adam puts down his charcoal and follows her to the office.
There over the telephone is poor Miss Philbrick’s notice written in the script writing she learned at night classes in Southampton Row.
“Students are forbidden to use the telephone during working hours.”
“Good morning, Imogen.”
“Yes, quite safely—very tired though.”
“I can’t, Imogen—for one thing I haven’t the money.”
“No, you can’t afford it either. Anyway, I’m dining with Lady R. tonight. You can tell me then, surely?”
“Why not?”
“Who lives there?”
“Not that awful Basil Hay?”
“Well, perhaps he is.”
“I used to meet him at Oxford sometimes.”
“WELL, IF YOU’RE SURE YOU CAN PAY I’LL COME TO LUNCHEON WITH YOU.”
“WHY THERE? IT’S FRIGHTFULLY EXPENSIVE.”
“STEAK TARTARE—WHAT’S THAT?”
The Cambridge voice explains, “Quite raw, you know, with olives and capers and vinegar and things.”
“My dear, you’ll turn into a werewolf.”
“I should love it if you did.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I am getting a little morbid.”
“One-ish. Please don’t be too late—I’ve only three-quarters of