DOI article:
Dixon, Ella Hepworth: The Sweet o' the Year
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.26392#0163
By Ella Hepworth Dixon 159
And all the while Virginie, busy among her pots and pans at
the end of the passage, was thinking about her master. She was
proud of his talent, of his success, above all, of his youth and good
looks. She rejoiced that, although M. Georges was barely thirty,
he was already hors concours at the Salon, that he could afford so
big a studio. The young men made more money nowadays.
. . . Why, it was a finer atelier than he used to have—the
greatest painter of his day in France, the famous Jean Vaillant.
The stove had not yet been lighted, and, in spite of the
sunshine outside, it was chilly in the kitchen, where Virginie
was scouring the pans. At seventy, after a lifetime of anxiety
and of toil; of rising at the dawn, of scrubbing, cleaning, cooking,
washing : at seventy, one has no longer much warmth in one’s
veins. And then the blond, spring sunshine only made her feel
dizzy ; she had a cough which troubled her, and queer pains in her
bones. ... “ Maybe,” she nodded to herself, “ that it is not for
long that I am here. Poor M. Georges.”
An imperious ring at the outer bell made her hurry to the door.
Her face fell as she encountered a fantastic hat loaded with lilac, a
fresh spring toilet, a pair of handsome eyes, and a triumphant
smile. She began to grumble.
“ M. Georges was at home, yes. But he was busy. He was
hard at work on a picture. The back-ground of a portrait which
must be finished this week. Could not Mademoiselle call again ?”
“ Ah, but he will see me,” declared the Lilac Hat, pushing by,
and leaving a pungent odour of chypre behind her as she passed,
with her rustling silk linings and her overpowering air of femi-
ninity. Virginie shuffled after her to the studio door.
“Mile. Rose,” she announced.
The young man threw down his palette and brushes, and
turned, his face alight.
As
And all the while Virginie, busy among her pots and pans at
the end of the passage, was thinking about her master. She was
proud of his talent, of his success, above all, of his youth and good
looks. She rejoiced that, although M. Georges was barely thirty,
he was already hors concours at the Salon, that he could afford so
big a studio. The young men made more money nowadays.
. . . Why, it was a finer atelier than he used to have—the
greatest painter of his day in France, the famous Jean Vaillant.
The stove had not yet been lighted, and, in spite of the
sunshine outside, it was chilly in the kitchen, where Virginie
was scouring the pans. At seventy, after a lifetime of anxiety
and of toil; of rising at the dawn, of scrubbing, cleaning, cooking,
washing : at seventy, one has no longer much warmth in one’s
veins. And then the blond, spring sunshine only made her feel
dizzy ; she had a cough which troubled her, and queer pains in her
bones. ... “ Maybe,” she nodded to herself, “ that it is not for
long that I am here. Poor M. Georges.”
An imperious ring at the outer bell made her hurry to the door.
Her face fell as she encountered a fantastic hat loaded with lilac, a
fresh spring toilet, a pair of handsome eyes, and a triumphant
smile. She began to grumble.
“ M. Georges was at home, yes. But he was busy. He was
hard at work on a picture. The back-ground of a portrait which
must be finished this week. Could not Mademoiselle call again ?”
“ Ah, but he will see me,” declared the Lilac Hat, pushing by,
and leaving a pungent odour of chypre behind her as she passed,
with her rustling silk linings and her overpowering air of femi-
ninity. Virginie shuffled after her to the studio door.
“Mile. Rose,” she announced.
The young man threw down his palette and brushes, and
turned, his face alight.
As