Standing on a small platform, her back to the class, her arms raised and her fingers resting on her head, Mary sneezed, then quickly resumed the pose. A few feet in front of her a glowing coal fire warmed her belly and legs, flushing them a deep pink, while her back and bottom remained pale and chilled. She sneezed again.
‘No. No. No!’ Protheroe’s voice boomed behind her. ‘Do you see the model at all, Mr Smethwick? Look, sir! Look! Use your eyes! A rare and singular idea to you, no doubt – but one that has more than stood the test of time!’
Mary heard him tear the drawing from the board, followed by the sound of his footsteps as he strode to the podium to stand close behind her.
‘Here we have the graceful line of a neck – not, as you have drawn, a gnarled trunk, suitable only for the seating of leprechauns!’ He stroked along the underside of her arm. ‘Here I behold the slender sweep of a limb – where you, Smethwick, apparently, see the connecting rods of a Great Western express! And here …’ his fingers moved to the small of her back, travelling down, tracing the contour of her right buttock, ‘where nature has conspired to produce a posterior, exquisite in both tone and form, you have conspired to represent …’ he shook the drawing in disgust, ‘sacks of cauliflowers! If your leaning is toward horticulture, sir, might I suggest you take up market gardening and leave the arts to those of us with an eye for the sublime – rather than the ridiculous!’
The footsteps receded, and Mary relaxed a little. In the five months since she had first climbed upon the podium she had all but lost her embarrassment, yet she could never quite overcome her dread of his touch.
Her arms began to ache, and she glanced toward the clock that hung above the door. It was then she noticed the smartly dressed man who had arrived unannounced and was regarding her with interest.
‘Rest!’ announced Protheroe from the back of the room.
Mary lowered her arms, shaking the life back into them, then reached for the loose gown, slipping into it.
‘Mr Morganstone,’ Protheroe beamed, striding the length of the room. ‘How very good to see you, my dear sir. Please, come through to my study.’ He turned to look around the studio. ‘We shall break for lunch, gentlemen. Oh, and for Mr Smethwick’s benefit we shall resume this afternoon with a still-life. Winter vegetables, I think.’
‘Will I be required again today, Mr Protheroe?’ asked Mary.
He waved her away with a sweep of his hand. ‘No, no. I have cast sufficient pearls before these progeny of Circe.’ Then as an afterthought, ‘You may find yourself a space at the back this afternoon, if you wish.’