Free June Calvin by The Jilting of Baron Pelham Page A

satires?”
    “No, Hogarth was a master painter, as well as a satirist. His first donation was a portrait of the founder of the hospital. Other artists followed suit, making similar donations.”
    Davida clapped her hands. “Let me guess. Before long, people were visiting the hospital for the sake of the paintings.”
    Curzon nodded his approval of her quick comprehension. “And paying for the privilege. After Hogarth’s death many other artists continued the tradition. The success of these exhibitions led to dreams of a separate academy for training artists and exhibiting their works.”
    “What an odd way for a school of art to begin.”
    “A great deal of the credit goes to our old king, who lent the project his support. He was healthy then. Poor old farmer George!”
    With enthusiasm and a range of knowledge that indicated that Curzon was also well versed in architecture, he pointed out to her the salient features of the fine building which housed the Royal Academy: its Corinthian columns and pilasters, balustrades, decorated windows, and other ornamentations designed to give it beauty and dignity.
    It was with a new appreciation that Davida entered through the two-story Corinthian columns into the imposing vestibule. She had been to the exhibition before, of course, but the crush of the crowd had prevented her from truly enjoying the paintings, much less the architecture of the building.
    Instead of proceeding up the grand staircase to the exhibition rooms, as she had on previous visits, Davida was led to the right, past the porter’s lodge and into the Life School, a commodious room full of artists’ easels and various props and draperies. The strong scent of oil paints permeated the room.
    Curzon pointed out several long wires hanging from the ceiling, ending in loops or hooks. “What do you think those are for, Miss Gresham?”
    Davida wrinkled her nose in concentration, but couldn’t come up with an intelligent guess. Mischief lit her eyes. “Instruments of torture, perhaps?”
    On a shout of laughter he led her to the raised stage over which these hooks dangled. “Perhaps our models sometimes think so, but they are really intended to assist them.”
    “Do explain, Mr. Curzon,” Davida urged impatiently, her curiosity aroused.
    Instead of explaining, he led her to a position beneath one and gave it a tug. It lowered to about his shoulder. He reached forward and took her wrist and placed it in the curve of the hook. “Now do you see?”
    A little uneasily, Davida watched him maneuver another hook. “Not entirely.” She resisted his attempt to place her other wrist in it, and he did not insist, but stood back, looking at her intently. At last Davida comprehended, and she struck a pose, using the hook to hold her wrist before herself in a dramatic gesture.
    “Exactly! They help our models maintain gravity-defying poses for long periods of time.”
    “You speak of ‘our’ models.”
    “Yes, I have the privilege of attending the life classes. Mind, I pay well for the privilege, but it is worth every farthing to be able to draw the human form unfettered by clothing.”
    At this Davida felt her coloring beginning to heighten, and she lifted her arm free of the hook. She was further discomposed by Curzon’s next statement.
    “How I should like to paint you, Davida. If I only could capture that devastating mixture of white and rose that is your coloring!” It seemed to her that he was undressing her with his eyes, and his look had become almost fanatical.
    Hastily, Davida murmured, “I think we should go see the exhibition now.”
    For once it was Curzon who flushed and looked embarrassed. “Forgive me. I always seem to be skirting the edge of propriety with you. And you have made it abundantly clear that you do not like it, have you not,
Miss
Gresham?” Brows arched, he held out his hand to assist her from the stage. With only a little hesitation, she took it.
    It was truly a pleasure to view the