He just looked amused. He said:

‘Who said you were any judge of painting? I don’t believe you know anything about it.’

I said: ‘Perhaps not. But they are marvellous, all the same.’

He grinned at me and said: ‘Don’t be a gushing little fool.’

I said: ‘I’m not. I want you to paint me.’

Crale said: ‘If you’ve any sense at all, you’ll realize that I don’t paint portraits of pretty women.’

I said: ‘It needn’t be a portrait and I’m not a pretty woman.’

He looked at me then as though he’d begun to see me. He said: ‘No, perhaps you’re not.’

I said: ‘Will you paint me then?’

He studied me for some time with his head on one side. Then he said: ‘You’re a strnage child, aren’t you?’

I said: ‘I’m quite rich, you know. I can afford to pay well for it.’

He said: ‘Why are you so anxious for me to paint you?’

I said: ‘Because I want it!’

He said: ‘Is that a reason?’

And I said: ‘Yes, I always get what I want.’

He said then: ‘Oh, my poor child, how young you are!’

I said: ‘Will you paint me?’

He took me by the shoulders and turned me towards the light and looked me over. Then he stood away from me a little. I stood quite still, waiting.

He said: ‘I’ve sometimes wanted to paint a flight of impossibly-coloured Australian Maccaws alighting on St Paul’s Cathedral. If I painted you against a nice traditional bit of outdoor landscape, I believe I’d get exactly the same result.’

I said: ‘Then you will paint me?’

He said: ‘You’re one of the loveliest, crudest, most flamboyant bits of exotic colouring I’ve ever seen. I’ll paint you!’

I said: ‘Then that’s settled.’

He went on: ‘But I’ll warn you, Elsa Greer. If I do paint you, I shall probably make love to you.’

I said: ‘I hope you will…’

I said it quite steadily and quietly. I heard him catch his breath, and I saw the look that came into his eyes.

You see, it was as sudden as all that.

A day or two later we met again. He told me that he wanted me to come down to Devonshire-he’d got the very place there that he wanted for a background. He said:

‘I’m married, you know. And I’m very fond of my wife.’

I said if he was fond of her she must be very nice.

He said she was extremely nice. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘she’s quite adorable-and I adore her. So put that in your pipe, young Elsa, and smoke it.’

I told him that I quite understood.

He began the picture a week later. Caroline Crale welcomed me very pleasantly. She didn’t like me much-but, after all, why should she? Amyas was very circumspect. He never said a word to me that his wife couldn’t have overheard, and I was quite polite and formal to him. Underneath, though, we both knew.

After ten days he told me I was to go back to London.

I said: ‘The picture isn’t finished.’

He said: ‘It’s barely begun. The truth is, I can’t paint you, Elsa.’

I said: ‘Why?’

He said: ‘You know well enough why, Elsa. And that’s why you’ve got to clear out. I can’t think about the painting-I can’t think about anything but you.’

We were in the Battery garden. It was a hot sunny day. There were birds and humming bees. It ought to have been very happy and peaceful. But it didn’t feel like that. It felt-somehow-tragic. As though-as though what was going to happen was already mirrored there.

I knew it would be no good my going back to London, but I said: ‘Very well, I’ll go if you say so.’

Amyas said: ‘Good girl.’

So I went. I didn’t write to him.

He held out for ten days and then he came. He was so thin and haggard and miserable that it shocked me.

He said: ‘I warned you, Elsa. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

I said: ‘I’ve been waiting for you. I knew you’d come.’

He gave a sort of groan and said: ‘There are things that are too strong for any man. I can’t eat or sleep or rest for wanting you.’

I said I knew that and that it was the same with me, and had been from the first moment I’d seen him. It was Fate and it was no use struggling against it.

He said: ‘You haven’t struggled much, have you, Elsa?’ And I said I hadn’t struggled at all.

He said he wished I wasn’t so young, and I said that didn’t matter. I suppose I might say that for the next few weeks we were very happy. But happiness isn’t quite the word. It was something deeper and more frightening than that.

We were made for each other and we’d found each other-and we both knew we’d got to be together always.

But something else happened, too. The unfinished picture began to haunt Amyas. He said to me: ‘Damned funny, I couldn’t paint you before-you yourself got in the way of it. But Iwant to paint you, Elsa. I want to paint you so that that picture will be the finest thing I’ve ever done. I’m itching and aching now to get at my brushes to see you sitting there on that hoary old chestnut of a battlement wall with the conventional blue sea and the decorous English trees-and you-you-sitting there like a discordant shriek of triumph.’

He said: ‘And I’ve got to paint you that way! And I can’t be fussed and bothered while I’m doing it. When the picture’s finished I’ll tell Caroline the truth and we’ll get the whole messy business cleared up.’

I said: ‘Will Caroline make a fuss about divorcing you?’

He said he didn’t think so. But you never knew with women.

I said I was sorry if she was going to be upset, but after all, I said, these things did happen.

He said: ‘Very nice and reasonable, Elsa. But Caroline isn’t reasonable, never has been reasonable, and certainly isn’t going to feel reasonable. She loves me, you know.’

I said I understood that, but if she loved him, she’d put his happiness first, and at any rate she wouldn’t want to keep him if he wanted to be free.

He said: ‘Life can’t really be solved by admirable maxims out of modern literature. Nature’s red in tooth and claw, remember.’

I said: ‘Surely we are all civilized people nowadays?’ and Amyas laughed. He said: ‘Civilized people my foot! Caroline would probably like to take a hatchet to you. She might do it too. Don’t you realize, Elsa, that she’s going to suffer-suffer? Don’t you know what suffering means?’

I said: ‘Then don’t tell her.’

He said: ‘No. The break’s got to come. You’ve got to belong to me properly, Elsa. Before all the world. Openly mine.’

I said: ‘Suppose she won’t divorce you?’

He said: ‘I’m not afraid of that.’

I said: ‘What are you afraid of then?’

And then he said slowly: ‘I don’t know…’

You see, he knew Caroline. I didn’t.

If I’d had any idea…

We went down again to Alderbury. Things were difficult this time. Caroline had got suspicious. I didn’t like it-I didn’t like it-I didn’t like it a bit. I’ve always hated deceit and concealment. I thought we ought to tell her. Amyas wouldn’t hear of it.

The funny part of it was that he didn’t really care at all. In spite of being fond of Caroline and not wanting to hurt her, he just didn’t care about the honesty or dishonesty of it all. He was painting with a kind of frenzy, and nothing else mattered. I hadn’t seen him in one of his working spells before. I realized now what a really great genius he was. It was natural for him to be so carried away that all the ordinary decencies didn’t matter. But it was different for me. I was in a horrible position. Caroline resented me-and quite rightly. The only thing to put the position quite straight was to be honest and tell her the truth.

But all Amyas would say was that he wasn’t going to be bothered with scenes and fusses until he’d finished the picture. I said there probably wouldn’t be a scene. Caroline would have too much dignity and pride for that.

I said: ‘I want to be honest about it all. We’vegot to be honest!’

Amyas said: ‘To hell with honesty. I’m painting a picture, damn it.’

I did see his point of view, but he wouldn’t see mine.

And in the end I broke down. Caroline had been talking of some plan she and Amyas were going to carry out next autumn. She talked about it quite confidently. And I suddenly felt it was too abominable, what we were doing-letting her go on like this-and perhaps, too, I was angry, because she was really being very unpleasant to me in a clever sort of way that one couldn’t take hold of.

And so I came out with the truth. In a way, I still think I was right. Though, of course, I wouldn’t have done it if I’d had the faintest idea what was to come of it.

The clash came right away. Amyas was furious with me, but he had to admit that what I had said was true.

I didn’t understand Caroline at all. We all went over to Meredith Blake’s to tea, and Caroline played up marvellously-talking and laughing. Like a fool, I thought she was taking it well. It was awkward my not being able to leave the house, but Amyas would have gone up in smoke if I had. I thought perhaps Caroline would go. It would have made it much easier for us if she had.

I didn’t see her take the coniine. I want to be honest so I think that it’s just possible that she may have taken it as she said she did, with the idea of suicide in her mind.

But I don’treally think so. I think she was one of those intensely jealous and possessive women who won’t let go of anything that they think belongs to them. Amyas was her property. I think she was quite prepared to kill him rather than to let him go-completely and finally-to another woman. I think she made up her mind, right away, to kill him. And I think that Meredith’s happening to discuss coniine so freely just gave her the means to do what she’d already made up her mind to do. She was a very bitter and revengeful woman-vindictive. Amyas knew all along that she was dangerous. I didn’t.

The next morning she had a final showdown with Amyas. I heard most of it from the outside on the terrace. He was splendid-very patient and calm. He implored her to be reasonable. He said he was very fond of her and the child and always would be. He’d do everything he could do to assure their future. Then he hardened up and said: ‘But understand this. I’m damned well going to marry Elsa-and nothing shall stop me. You and I always agreed to leave each other free. These things happen.’