A Comedy of Masks | Page 5

your
candour."
Rainham shrugged his shoulder.
"If you will have it, Dick--only, don't think that I am to be coaxed into
compliments."
"Is it bad?" asked Lightmark sceptically.
"On the contrary, it is surprisingly good. It's clever and pretty; sure to
be hung, sure to sell. Only you have come down a peg. The sentiment
about that river is very pretty, and that mist is eminently pictorial; but
it's not the river you would have painted last year; and that mist--I have
seen it in a good many pictures now--is a mist that one can't quite
believe in. It's the art that pays, but it's not the art you talked at
Brodonowski's last summer, that is all."
Lightmark tugged at his moustache a little ruefully. Rainham had an
idea that his ups and downs were tremendous. His mind was a
mountainous country, and if he had elations, he had also depressions as
acute. Yet his elasticity was enormous, and he could throw off
troublesome intruders, in the shape of memories or regrets, with the
ease of a slow-worm casting its skin. And so now his confidence was
only shaken for a moment, and he was able to reply gaily to Rainham's

last thrust:
"My dear fellow, I expect I talked a good deal of trash last year, after
all"--a statement which the other did not find it worth while to deny.
They had resumed their places at the table, and Lightmark, with a
half-sheet of note-paper before him, was dashing off profiles. They
were all the same--the head of a girl: a childish face with a straight,
small nose, and rough hair gathered up high above her head in a plain
knot. Rainham, leaning over, watched him with an amused smile.
"The current infatuation, Dick, or the last but one?"
"No," he said; "only a girl I know. Awfully pretty, isn't she?"
Rainham, who was a little short-sighted, took up the paper carelessly.
He dropped it after a minute with a slight start.
"I think I know her," he said. "You have a knack of catching faces. Is it
Miss Sylvester?"
"Yes; it is Eve Sylvester," said Lightmark. "Do you know them? I see a
good deal of them now."
"I have known them a good many years," said Rainham.
"They have never spoken of you to me," said Lightmark.
"No? I dare say not. Why should they?" He was silent for a moment,
looking thoughtfully at his ring. Then he said abruptly: "I think I know
now who your friend the barrister is, Dick. I recognise the style. It is
Charles Sylvester, is it not?"
"You are a wizard," answered the other, laughing. "Yes, it is." Then he
asked: "Don't you think she is awfully pretty?"
"Miss Sylvester?... Very likely; she was a very pretty child. You know,
she had not come out last year. Are you going?"

Lightmark had pulled out his watch absently, and he leapt up as he
discovered the lateness of the hour.
"Heavens, yes! I am dining out, and I shall barely have time to dress. I
will fetch my traps to-morrow; then we might dine together
afterwards."
"As you like," said the elder man. "I have no engagements yet."
Lightmark left him with a genial nod, and a moment later Rainham saw
him through the window passing with long impetuous strides across the
bridge. Then he returned to his desk, and wrote a letter or two until the
light failed, when he pushed his chair back, and sat, pen in hand,
looking meditatively, vaguely, at the antiquated maps upon the walls.
Presently his eye fell on Lightmark's derelict paper, with its scribble of
a girl's head. He considered it thoughtfully for some time, starting a
little, and covering it with his blotting-paper, when Mrs. Bullen, his
housekeeper, entered with a cup of tea--a freak of his nerves which
made him smile when she had gone.
Even then he left his tea for a long time, cooling and untasted, while he
sat lethargically lolling back, and regarding from time to time the
pencilled profile with his sad eyes.
CHAPTER II
The period of Lightmark's boyhood had not been an altogether happy
one. His earliest recollections carried him back to a time when he lived
a wandering, desolate life with his father and mother, in an endless
series of Continental hotels and pensions. He was prepared to assert,
with confidence, that his mother had been a very beautiful person, who
carried an air of the most abundant affection for him on the numerous
occasions when she received her friends. Of his father, who had, as far
as possible, ignored his existence, he remembered very little.
During these years there had been frequent difficulties, the nature of
which he had since learned entirely to comprehend; controversies with

white-waistcoated proprietors