While the Light Lasts - Agatha Christie [48]
He looked round the room. Typically Jane. Some lovely things, pure gems, that piece of Battersea enamel, for instance, and there next to it, an atrocity of a vase hand-painted with roses.
He picked the latter up.
‘Would you be very angry, Jane, if I pitched this out of the window?’
‘Oh! Alan, you mustn’t.’
‘What do you want with all this trash? You’ve plenty of taste if you care to use it. Mixing things up!’
‘I know, Alan. It isn’t that I don’t know. But people give me things. That vase–Miss Bates brought it back from Margate–and she’s so poor, and has to scrape, and it must have cost her quite a lot–for her, you know, and she thought I’d be so pleased. I simply had to put it in a good place.’
Everard said nothing. He went on looking round the room. There were one or two etchings on the walls–there were also a number of photographs of babies. Babies, whatever their mothers may think, do not always photograph well. Any of Jane’s friends who acquired babies hurried to send photographs of them to her, expecting these tokens to be cherished. Jane had duly cherished them.
‘Who’s this little horror?’ asked Everard, inspecting a pudgy addition with a squint. ‘I’ve not seen him before.’
‘It’s a her,’ said Jane. ‘Mary Carrington’s new baby.’
‘Poor Mary Carrington,’ said Everard. ‘I suppose you’ll pretend that you like having that atrocious infant squinting at you all day?’
Jane’s chin shot out.
‘She’s a lovely baby. Mary is a very old friend of mine.’
‘Loyal Jane,’ said Everard smiling at her. ‘So Isobel landed you with Winnie, did she?’
‘Well, she did say you wanted to go to Scotland, and I jumped at it. You will let me have Winnie, won’t you? I’ve been wondering if you would let her come to me for ages, but I haven’t liked to ask.’
‘Oh, you can have her–but it’s awfully good of you.’
‘Then that’s all right,’ said Jane happily.
Everard lit a cigarette.
‘Isobel show you the new portrait?’ he asked rather indistinctly.
‘She did.’
‘What did you think of it?’
Jane’s answer came quickly–too quickly:
‘It’s perfectly splendid. Absolutely splendid.’
Alan sprang suddenly to his feet. The hand that held the cigarette shook.
‘Damn you, Jane, don’t lie to me!’
‘But, Alan, I’m sure, it is perfectly splendid.’
‘Haven’t you learnt by now, Jane, that I know every tone of your voice? You lie to me like a hatter so as not to hurt my feelings, I suppose. Why can’t you be honest? Do you think I want you to tell me a thing is splendid when I know as well as you do that it’s not? The damned thing’s dead–dead. There’s no life in it–nothing behind, nothing but surface, damned smooth surface. I’ve cheated myself all along–yes, even this afternoon. I came along to you to find out. Isobel doesn’t know. But you know, you always do know. I knew you’d tell me it was good–you’ve no moral sense about that sort of thing. But I can tell by the tone of your voice. When I showed you Romance you didn’t say anything at all–you held your breath and gave a sort of gasp.’
‘Alan…’
Everard gave her no chance to speak. Jane was producing the effect upon him he knew so well. Strange that so gentle a creature could stir him to such furious anger.
‘You think I’ve lost the power, perhaps,’ he said angrily, ‘but I haven’t. I can do work every bit as good as Romance–better, perhaps. I’ll show you, Jane Haworth.’
He fairly rushed out of the flat. Walking rapidly, he crossed through the Park and over Albert Bridge. He was still tingling all over with irritation and baffled rage. Jane, indeed! What did she know about painting? What was her opinion worth? Why should he care? But he did care. He wanted to paint something that would make Jane gasp. Her mouth would open just a little, and her cheeks would flush red. She would