But she'd seen enough to set her
mind at rest. He was fine and fastidious, and the models were all
"common."
"And their figures, Roly, you should have seen them when they were
undressed. Of course, you _have_ seen them. Well, there isn't--is
there?"
And there wasn't. Hippisley had grown out of models just as he had
grown out of cheap Burgundy. And he'd left the stage, because he was
tired of it, so there was, mercifully, no danger from that quarter.
What she dreaded was the moment when he'd "take" to writing again, for
then he'd have to have a secretary. Also she was jealous of his writing
because it absorbed more of his attention than his painting, and
exhausted him more, left her less of him.
And that year, their third year, he flung up his painting and was, as
she expressed it, "at it" again. Worse than ever. And he wanted a
secretary.
She took care to find him one. One who wouldn't be dangerous. "You
should just see her, Roly." She brought her in to tea one day for me to
look at and say whether she would "do."
I wasn't sure--what can you be sure of?--but I could see why Lena
thought she would.
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