Thirteen Guests by J Jefferson Farjeon Page A

interest you above-stairs, let me try below-stairs. Leopards also prowl in basements. Do not be surprised if you are given bamboo-shoots for dinner to-night. We have a Chinese cook. No good? I’ll try again. We have something in the domestic line more attractive than a Chinese cook—a very pretty maid. Name, Bessie. Delightful figure. Make a good model. But when this was suggested to her, she was filled with charming confusion.” He rose and stretched himself. “I shall waste no more time over you, Lionel. You’re not worth it. I shall take a stroll before dressing.”
    â€œDo,” said Bultin. “Since you can’t tell me anything about the most interesting people here.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œMr. and Mrs. Chater.”
    â€œAh, the Chaters,” answered Pratt. “Yes, there I’m beaten. The little leopard knows nothing about the Chaters.”
    â€œNor does Lord Aveling,” replied Bultin. “But James Earnshaw does. And, unless I am reaching my dotage, the Chaters know something about James Earnshaw. Which is my bed?”
    â€œThat one over there.”
    â€œGood. I’ll have the other one.”
    Pratt laughed and left the room. Outside he paused. Harold Taverley, the one man he had not mentioned, was entering his room opposite, and threw him a smile.
    â€œWhy does that man always make me see red?” wondered Pratt.
    He went downstairs thoughtfully.

Chapter VII
    Whitewash and Paint
    A narrow passage led from the back of the lounge-hall into the grounds, and as Leicester Pratt passed out into a sheltered lawn, its dark surface streaked with slits of light from upper windows—one window being that of his bedroom—he noticed a thin coil of smoke spiralling upwards. Then Nadine Leveridge gleamed at him out of a shadow.
    She was a creature of dazzling white, softened by the deep green of her dress. Her shoulders were perfectly formed and perfectly revealed. One was tempted to envy the narrow green strips curving with such apparent insecurity over them. A double rope of pearls made a loop in front of the simple green bodice. A silk wrap, also of green, but deeper and more brilliant in hue, partially covered one shoulder.
    â€œNadine Leveridge is Life’s relentless weapon,” thought Pratt. “A woman for fools to fear.”
    Pratt did not fear her. He could even stand and regard her, deliberately studying her subtle challenges with the impertinent privilege of an artist.
    â€œYou’ve dressed early,” he said. She nodded. “Not afraid of the cold?”
    â€œNot a bit.”
    He felt for his cigarette-case, and found he had left it in his room.
    â€œI’m sorry I can’t oblige,” remarked Nadine. “Mr. Taverley gave me this.”
    She held up her cigarette. Pratt noticed that it was a State Express 555.
    â€œDon’t move for a moment,” he said. She stood motionless, her eyebrows raised a little. Only the cigarette smoke continued its movement. “The lady with the cigarette. The lady in green. Modern Eve. Woman. Anything you damn like. When do I paint her?”
    â€œShe’d have to pawn her pearls to pay your price,” smiled Nadine, puffing the cigarette again.
    â€œThat’s terribly material.”
    â€œGoes against the grain?”
    Now Pratt smiled.
    â€œYou must hate meeting pieces of wood like Bultin and me,” he observed.
    â€œNonsense—nobody’s wood!” retorted Nadine. “Some people build wooden walls around themselves, that’s all. Bultin does, certainly.”
    â€œYes, I agree. He’s chained himself inside in case he should get out and collapse. But—me?”
    â€œSomething could move you.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’ve no idea. But I couldn’t. That’s why I don’t think I’ll pawn my pearls, thank you. Any one who paints me must be an out-and-out idealist.”
    â€œAn idealist is merely