flattered to death. I always adore romantic intrigues. You could not have chosen your man more felicitously, for I am a marvelous actor. It will be quite a commedia dell’arte, complete with improvisation. What pitch of passion are you and I to have reached?”
“Only a very low pitch,” Sara replied.
He cast a conning smile on her. “Acting without passion is like hearing Mozart hummed. The greater refinements are lacking. Restraint was never my long suit, especially in the gentle art of love.”
“I have enough restraint for both of us.”
“And I enough passion.”
“How long must I hold my hand up to my eyes.”
“I shall begin my sketch immediately.”
He was silent while he worked and insisted that Sara, too, be still, which left the burden of talk to Mary. She pestered Idle with suggestions for his ball. After half an hour, he was pleased with his preliminary sketch.
“I shall transfer this to canvas this evening and return tomorrow to recapture more permanently, if I can, the wonderful spontaneity of this quick sketch. It’s charming, don’t you think?”
The ladies admired it, prodded by the artist to praise his clever touches here and there. “You will notice I omitted that rather pedestrian gown and brooch you are wearing, Sara. I will want your throat and shoulders exposed for the final work. Nothing salacious, ça va sans dire, but a touch of opalescent flesh to emphasize your womanhood. And the tresses flowing, caressed by a sympathetic zephyr whispering of tragedy at sea. Such a tragedy that Peter has returned.”
Sara cast a withering stare at him. “So that’s what you are up to! Portraying me as a heartbroken tragedienne.”
“Your history has always intrigued me,” he admitted. “Reality is inevitably a letdown, is it not?” He did not wait for an answer, but said, “What will you wear this evening? If you are to be my flirt, you must look your prettiest, my pet. Something just a trifle daring, if you possess such a garment?”
“I shan’t disgrace you,” Sara promised. She was beginning to think the evening might not be so dismal as she had feared. At the back of her mind it was not just Peter she wished to put in his place. She would enjoy to show Haldiman a lesson as well.
Idle put his sketch pad under his arm. “It will lend credence to our little melodrama if we arrive ensemble, will it not? I shall call for you, and we shall follow your mama and Mary to the Hall. Sevenish?” he asked.
“We have to be there by seven,” Mary told him.
“My dear child, I never arrive on time. It makes one appear too easy. Let the company simmer awhile, wondering if I am to come at all. I shall be here around seven, we shall enjoy a glass of wine and depart for the Hall before seven-thirty. Perdita is such a glutton she will begin dinner without us if we tarry longer. And now, adieu.” He bowed, and minced across the meadow, clutching his sketch pad.
“You shan’t make anyone jealous with him,” Mary informed her sister.
“Jealousy is not the point.”
Mary gazed a moment at her sister. “Don’t you really want to marry Peter, Sara?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t love him.”
Mary looked pensive. “I didn’t know love could die.”
“There’s a great deal you don’t know about love.” And neither do I, Sara added silently to herself. But she knew something about men and was beginning to wonder if she had chosen well in selecting Swithin for her acting partner. What she really wanted was a more or less silent conspirator, and silence was no more a long suit of Idle than was restraint.
* * * *
“We should have left for the Hall fifteen minutes ago,” Mrs. Wood said, glancing at the clock for the third time in as many minutes.
“Idle will be here any moment, Mama,” Sara replied.
“I can’t think why you agreed to go with him. It will look so odd to the Haldimans, especially at this time.”
“His mother will be with us.
“Only a very low pitch,” Sara replied.
He cast a conning smile on her. “Acting without passion is like hearing Mozart hummed. The greater refinements are lacking. Restraint was never my long suit, especially in the gentle art of love.”
“I have enough restraint for both of us.”
“And I enough passion.”
“How long must I hold my hand up to my eyes.”
“I shall begin my sketch immediately.”
He was silent while he worked and insisted that Sara, too, be still, which left the burden of talk to Mary. She pestered Idle with suggestions for his ball. After half an hour, he was pleased with his preliminary sketch.
“I shall transfer this to canvas this evening and return tomorrow to recapture more permanently, if I can, the wonderful spontaneity of this quick sketch. It’s charming, don’t you think?”
The ladies admired it, prodded by the artist to praise his clever touches here and there. “You will notice I omitted that rather pedestrian gown and brooch you are wearing, Sara. I will want your throat and shoulders exposed for the final work. Nothing salacious, ça va sans dire, but a touch of opalescent flesh to emphasize your womanhood. And the tresses flowing, caressed by a sympathetic zephyr whispering of tragedy at sea. Such a tragedy that Peter has returned.”
Sara cast a withering stare at him. “So that’s what you are up to! Portraying me as a heartbroken tragedienne.”
“Your history has always intrigued me,” he admitted. “Reality is inevitably a letdown, is it not?” He did not wait for an answer, but said, “What will you wear this evening? If you are to be my flirt, you must look your prettiest, my pet. Something just a trifle daring, if you possess such a garment?”
“I shan’t disgrace you,” Sara promised. She was beginning to think the evening might not be so dismal as she had feared. At the back of her mind it was not just Peter she wished to put in his place. She would enjoy to show Haldiman a lesson as well.
Idle put his sketch pad under his arm. “It will lend credence to our little melodrama if we arrive ensemble, will it not? I shall call for you, and we shall follow your mama and Mary to the Hall. Sevenish?” he asked.
“We have to be there by seven,” Mary told him.
“My dear child, I never arrive on time. It makes one appear too easy. Let the company simmer awhile, wondering if I am to come at all. I shall be here around seven, we shall enjoy a glass of wine and depart for the Hall before seven-thirty. Perdita is such a glutton she will begin dinner without us if we tarry longer. And now, adieu.” He bowed, and minced across the meadow, clutching his sketch pad.
“You shan’t make anyone jealous with him,” Mary informed her sister.
“Jealousy is not the point.”
Mary gazed a moment at her sister. “Don’t you really want to marry Peter, Sara?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t love him.”
Mary looked pensive. “I didn’t know love could die.”
“There’s a great deal you don’t know about love.” And neither do I, Sara added silently to herself. But she knew something about men and was beginning to wonder if she had chosen well in selecting Swithin for her acting partner. What she really wanted was a more or less silent conspirator, and silence was no more a long suit of Idle than was restraint.
* * * *
“We should have left for the Hall fifteen minutes ago,” Mrs. Wood said, glancing at the clock for the third time in as many minutes.
“Idle will be here any moment, Mama,” Sara replied.
“I can’t think why you agreed to go with him. It will look so odd to the Haldimans, especially at this time.”
“His mother will be with us.
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