Free June Calvin by The Jilting of Baron Pelham Page B

exhibition without the crowds that usually attended it. So popular had the Royal Academy’s yearly offerings become that in spite of raised fees and attempts to limit viewers to the
beau monde
, sometimes the great hall was so crowded that people had been known to faint.
    With only Curzon and the venerable porter accompanying her, their footsteps echoing in the huge room, she admired the crowded floor-to-ceiling mass of paintings. Davida listened with pleasure to Curzon’s knowledgeable comments. He especially recommended the paintings of Edwin Landseer, a newcomer to the Academy.
    “Truly, I have never enjoyed viewing paintings so much before. I only wish more of them were on eye level. I can scarcely see those near the ceiling.”
    “Too bad I am not in the habit of carrying a quizzing glass. This would be one occasion on which it might have some useful function.” Curzon pantomimed a dandy, imaginary glass held to his twinkling eyes.
    Davida grinned at the notion of tall, dignified Harrison Curzon with a quizzing glass. For all of his elegance, there was nothing of the affected about him. Her respect for him deepened as he guided her through the large collection of Old Masters which the Academy had accumulated, enriching her appreciation of them with his knowledgeable comments.
    “They are invaluable as a source of study and inspiration for neophyte artists, many of whom do not have entrée into the great houses as you and I do, to see the paintings of the masters.”
    “I should like to see some of your paintings, Mr. Curzon.” Davida asked hesitantly, knowing this was tricky ground. If she truly admired his work there would be no problem. But if she did not, then what? She was not practiced in the art of insincere flattery, yet she did not want to hurt the man’s feelings.
    “You already have.” He smiled triumphantly. “In fact, you admired one.”
    “I did? When? Which one?”
    “I have three in the current exhibition. They are unsigned and not for sale, of course. You liked the one of the young maids trying on their mistress’s bonnets.”
    “That one! Oh, yes, it is wonderful!” Davida was relieved to be able to be completely honest. “But why do you enter them anonymously?”
    With a soft, regretful sigh, Curzon explained. “I wish them to be praised or damned on their own merit, not on the basis of my name. And, of course, to sell them would be déclassé.”
    “I suppose so, but it seems a pity not to sign them.”
    “Perhaps you will understand why I almost wish they were for sale?”
    At her quizzical look he spread his arms resignedly. “If they were sold at a good price, I should have a better sense of my artistic abilities. If something is truly valued, people will pay for it. But I am afraid I am damned to give my works as gifts and always fear they are taken out of hiding and hung just in time for my visits.” He tried for an amused, ironic tone, but Davida sensed his vulnerability on this point and had never liked him half so well before.
    “I believe I do know how you feel. Whenever I sing in a musicale, and people, particularly young men, praise me to the skies, I never know if their enthusiasm is for my singing, my appearance, or the fact that at last it is over and they can get some refreshments.” Curzon chuckled at this, and she smiled wistfully at him. “I have occasionally daydreamed of appearing, disguised of course, in an opera at King’s Theatre. Then, if I did not attract oranges, I would know my voice is worthy of praise.”
    “I assure you I would toss you flowers, not oranges.”
    “But then, you have never heard me sing, Mr. Curzon.”
    “And speaking of refreshments . . .”
    “Oh, were we?” Her eyes quizzed him merrily.
    “If not, perhaps we should. What would you say to sharing some ices with me at Gunther’s?”
    Davida agreed, but insisted that he point out his other two paintings to her as they left. She was able quite honestly to admire them.