conscious direction, as if his feet were under a charm to carry him home.
‘My dear friend!’ Puffing a little, Sandol the rug dealer drew up beside Lalo,
who looked at him in bewilderment. It had not been ‘my friend’ the last time
they met, when Sandol had refused to pay the full price for his wife’s portrait
because she said it made her look fat.
‘I have wanted to tell you how much enjoyment your painting brings us. As they
say, a work of art is a lasting pleasure – perhaps we ought to have a portrait
of myself to balance my wife’s. What do you say?’ He wiped his brow with a large
handkerchief of purple silk.
‘Well of course I would be happy – but I don’t know just when
– my time may be occupied for a while …’ answered Lalo, confused.
‘Yes indeed -‘ Sandol smiled unctuously. ‘I understand that your work will
shortly grace a much more august residence than my own. My wife was saying just
this morning what an honour it was to have been painted by the man who is
decorating Molin Torchholder’s feasting hall!’
Suddenly Lalo understood. The news of his prospective commission must be all
over town by now. He suppressed a grin of triumph, remembering how he had
humbled himself to this man to get even a part of his fee. Perhaps he should do
the picture -the rug merchant was as porcine as his lady, and they would make a
good pair.
‘Well, I must not discuss it yet…’ replied Lalo modestly. ‘But it is true that
I have been approached… I fear that an opportunity to serve the representative
of the gods of Ranke must take precedence over lesser commitments.’ Interested