“Hallo, David,” he said, “bringing us company?” He was, Mrs. Oliver thought, quite the dirtiest-looking young man she’d ever seen.
Oily black hair hung in a kind of circular bob down the back of his neck and over his eyes in front. His face apart from the beard was unshaven, and his clothes seemed mainly composed of greasy black leather and high boots. Mrs. Oliver’s glance went beyond him to a girl who was acting as a model. She was on a wooden chair on a dais, half flung across it, her head back and her dark hair drooping down from it.
Mrs. Oliver recognised her at once. It was the second one of the three girls in Borodene Mansions. Mrs. Oliver couldn’t remember her last name but she remembered her first one. It was the highly decorative and languid-looking girl called Frances.
“Meet Peter,” said David, indicating the somewhat revolting looking artist. “One of our budding geniuses. And Frances who is posing as a desperate girl demanding abortion.” “Shut up, you ape,” said Peter.
“I believe I know you, don’t I?” said Mrs. Oliver, cheerfully, without any air of conscious certainty. “I’m sure I’ve met you somewhere! Somewhere quite lately, too.” “You’re Mrs. Oliver, aren’t you?” said Frances.
“That’s what she said she was,” said David. “True, too, is it?” “Now, where did I meet you,” continued Mrs. Oliver. “Some party, was it?
No. Let me think. I know. It was Borodene Mansions.” Frances was sitting up now in her chair and speaking in weary but elegant tones.
Peter uttered a loud and miserable groan.
“Now you’ve ruined the pose! Do you have to have all this wriggling about?
Can’t you keep still?” “No, I couldn’t any longer. It was an awful pose. I’ve got the most frightful crick in my shoulder.” “I’ve been making experiments in following people,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It’s much more difficult than I thought. Is this an artist’s studio?” she added, looking round her brightly.
“That’s what they’re like nowadays, a kind of loft — and lucky if you don’t fall through the floor,” said Peter.
“It’s got all you need,” said David.
“It’s got a north light and plenty of room and a pad to sleep on, and a fourth share in the loo downstairs — and what they call cooking facilities. And it’s got a bottle or two,” he added. Turning to Mrs. Oliver, but in an entirely different tone, one of utter politeness, he said, “And can we offer you a drink?” “I don’t drink” said Mrs. Oliver. “The lady doesn’t drink,” said David. “Who would have thought it!” “That’s rather rude but you’re quite right,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Most people come up to me and say ‘I always thought you drank like a fish’.” She opened her handbag — and immediately three coils of grey hair fell on the floor. David picked them up and handed them to her.
“Oh! thank you.” Mrs. Oliver took them. “I hadn’t time this morning. I wonder if I’ve got any more hairpins.” She delved in her bag and started attaching the coils to her head.
Peter roared with laughter — “Bully for you,” he said.
“How extraordinary,” Mrs. Oliver thought to herself, “that I should ever have had this silly idea that I was in danger. Danger — from these people? No matter what they look like, they’re really very nice and friendly. It’s quite true what people always say to me. I’ve far too much imagination.” Presently she said she must be going, and David, with Regency gallantry, helped her down the rickety steps, and gave her definite directions as to how to rejoin the King’s Road in the quickest way.
“And then,” he said, “you can get a bus — or a taxi if you want it.” “A taxi,” said Mrs. Oliver. “My feet are absolutely dead. The sooner I fall into a taxi the better. Thank you,” she added, “for being so very nice about my following you in what must have seemed a very peculiar way. Though after all I don’t suppose private detectives, or private eyes or whatever they call them, would look anything at all like me.” “Perhaps not,” said David gravely.