There is no one in the room, the walls of which are whitewashed,
above a floor of bare dark boards. A fire is cheerfully
burning. On a model's platform stands an easel and canvas.
There are busts and pictures; a screen, a little stool, two arm.
chairs, and a long old-fashioned settle under the window. A
door in one wall leads to the house, a door in the opposite wall
to the model's dressing-room, and the street door is in the
centre of the wall between. On a low table a Russian samovar is
hissing, and beside it on a tray stands a teapot, with glasses,
lemon, sugar, and a decanter of rum. Through a huge uncurtained
window close to the street door the snowy lamplit street can be
seen, and beyond it the river and a night of stars.
The sound of a latchkey turned in the lock of the street door,
and ANN WELLWYN enters, a girl of seventeen, with hair tied in a
ribbon and covered by a scarf. Leaving the door open, she turns
up the electric light and goes to the fire. She throws of her
scarf and long red cloak. She is dressed in a high evening
frock of some soft white material. Her movements are quick and
substantial. Her face, full of no nonsense, is decided and
sincere, with deep-set eyes, and a capable, well-shaped
forehead. Shredding of her gloves she warms her hands.
In the doorway appear the figures of two men. The first is
rather short and slight, with a soft short beard, bright soft
eyes, and a crumply face.
Pages:
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90