“Marjorie left next day. A fortnight later I met her in town. I was coming down the steps of my club, and our ways, by some extraordinary coincidence, happened to lie in the same direction.
“How does the picture progress?” I asked. “Personally I have chosen an allegorical subject. I call it ‘Waiting.'”
“That is original.”
“Isn’t it? Originality is quite a hobby of mine. I intend to represent a beautiful young lady dressed in a neat creation of white, standing on a rustic bridge with her back to a rather sweet thing in Turneresque sunsets.”
“I see. And how does the title apply?”
“She is supposed to be waiting for a gentleman to whom she is devotedly attached. He is at present not in sight. But in one corner of the canvas an angel form, in whom the acute observer will readily recognise Fame, heralds his approach with a few notes from a gold trumpet. An expression of intense but natural gratification shines on the face of the beautiful young lady.”
“I suppose so.”
“And how is yours getting on, and what is it to be?”
“I am painting a landscape.”
“With figures?”
“There’s a cow in one corner.”
“Nothing else?”
“No.”
“Then I feel secure. The President, wavering between the merits of our respective landscapes, will remember my beautiful young lady, and the thing will be done. I see him at this moment, his face one large expanse of admiration.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. Now perhaps, under the circumstances, you would like to retire from the contest and acknowledge my superiority?”
“I shall do nothing of the sort. I don’t believe you are painting a picture at all. I don’t believe you can paint.”
“Good morning, Miss Somerville,” I said. “After that, you will hardly expect me to speak to you. Here we are at your door, and I will take my wounded self off in a hansom.”
Sending-in day came and went, and one morning I called at the Somervilles’ and asked to see Marjorie. The butler thought she was in the drawing-room. The rest of the family were out, but she had stopped at home. Should he tell her that I had called? I said that there was no necessity to announce me. I would go to the drawing-room.
I knocked steadily at the door for three-quarters of an hour (it may have been less) and then went in. At first the room seemed empty. Then I noticed a limp form on the sofa. It was Marjorie, and she was crying. I can stand a good many things, but one of the things which I cannot stand is to see Marjorie cry. She started up as I came in, and endeavoured to mend matters with a wholly inadequate pocket-handkerchief.
“I did knock,” I said. “Marjorie, do tell me what’s the matter. Has the picture been rejected?”
“Yes.” A sob from the sofa.
“Never mind. We’re both in the same —”
“I see now how silly I was ever to think I could paint.”
I caught my own eye in the mirror and winked affectionately at it.
“Marjorie,” I said, placing a hand in hers — always a sound move — “we will forget that idiotic wager. Treat me as if I had never asked you before, and tell me that you’ll — will you?” At this point it seemed judicious to remove my hand from hers and slide it round her waist. I did so. She made no protest.
“Marjorie, say ‘Yes.'”
“Yes.” In a whisper from the sofa.
“After that, several other things seemed judicious, and I did them all. She appeared rather to like it than otherwise.
“Marjorie,” I said, after a long silence, “do you know why I came today? I wanted to ask you to take me in spite of that absurd wager.”
“But you won it.”
“No. It was a drawn game. My allegory failed to impress the Committee.”
“What! You were refused?”
“My picture was. I was accepted. By you. Don’t move.”
She did not move.
Another long silence.
“We’ll take to photography,” I said at last thoughtfully. “Share the same camera and develop off the same plate.”
Marjorie sat up suddenly.
“Do you know,” she said, “I don’t mind so very, very much about the picture. I never did think very highly of the Academy. You know, it’s so — so —”