CHAPTER III
About ten o'clock the next morning—the rain had cleared off, the sun was shining brightly—Elizabeth saw from her window what she told Hatty was "a study in furs," walk into the house in which Alaric had his painting room. The French Jew had arrayed himself in a sealskin cap and coat, the morning being cold, while an orange cache-nez gave the accent of colour which he held essential to the intonation of his good looks.
"What do you say to this?" he began, as he entered the studio. "The treatment of the seal-skin would give you a fine opportunity, eh? Something à la Rembrandt? Do you fancy it?"
"You are not venerable enough to be painted à la Rembrandt, "said Baring, smiling. Then humouring the man's vanity with an implied and pardonable compliment, he continued, "I want to devote myself entirely to your head; to think of nothing else at first; to make it palpitating with life; to get those rich tones of the flesh which are so rare, and so splendid, from a painter. The dress, the background, will take care of themselves. Plain black, as unobtrusive as possible, and a grey wall, I fancy. But those are after-considerations."
