Free The Longest Winter by Mary Jane Staples Page B

standing carriage horse with its nose in its bag of oats and the upper half of a proud Vienna matron in an enormous hat. Part of a bridge with its glimpses of the river attracted Sophie, and she thought that even in crayon the water reflected bright light.
    ‘James, they’re so good,’ she said. There were others, they were all enchanting little peeks at Vienna. How well they would illustrate the volume of poems she had in mind.
    ‘They’re better than good,’ said Anne, ‘they’re lovely.’
    ‘Oh, sketches,’ said James. ‘A very limited branch of art, but suitable for a limited talent. I’d like to paint but I only achieve pretty-pretty pictures. I did some of the river the day I ran into you. Watercolours.’
    ‘Where are they?’ asked Sophie, her new hat out of sight on the grass behind her.
    ‘I drowned them in the Danube.’
    ‘Modesty should not be suicidal,’ said Sophie.
    ‘Don’t you sometimes tear up a poem?’ smiled James.
    ‘With some poems I commit murder,’ saidSophie. She leafed back to her portrait. She hesitated, then said, ‘James, will you let me have this? I mean, please may I have it?’
    ‘Of course. Take it,’ he said. She carefully extracted the leaf and returned the thick pad to him.
    ‘Thank you,’ she said as he went to work again on Anne’s sketch.
    ‘A pleasure,’ he said, ‘and a compliment. But I shall charge you for it.’
    ‘Oh,’ she said. Then, ‘Naturally, you must, but what?’
    ‘I’ll tell you one day,’ said James.
    ‘James, now you can’t refuse to sell me the one you’re doing of me when it’s finished,’ said Anne.
    ‘It’s yours, but I’m not selling it to you,’ said James, ‘there’s no charge.’ Which left Anne shaking her head and Sophie disconcerted.
    ‘James, I’m not complaining,’ she said, ‘but why—’
    ‘We won’t go into it now,’ said James.
    Which left her puzzled. She and Anne watched him putting the finishing touches to the sketch. He was absorbed, so Sophie put her new hat on again. Anne looked at it and loved it.
    ‘Oh, Sophie, that’s delicious,’ she said.
    James sketched on.
    ‘It might be delicious,’ said Sophie, ‘but it’s not commanding universal attention.’
    ‘It commands mine,’ said Anne, ‘it’s turning me green with envy. You’re impressed too, aren’t you, James?’
    ‘Not with this,’ said James, viewing his work critically, ‘I think it’s coming out wrong again.’
    ‘Since he seems to be taking more notice of you than of me at the moment,’ said Sophie to her sister, ‘will you please tell him that if he doesn’t look at my new hat I shall get up and bite him?’
    He looked. The little green boater perched lightly, tilting piquantly on her dark hair. It made him think of joyous spring kissed by gay summer.
    ‘Is that a hat, Sophie?’
    ‘Beast,’ said Sophie.
    ‘Words can’t describe it,’ said James.
    ‘Hate you,’ said Sophie.
    ‘It’s not even a creation,’ said James, ‘it’s a little miracle. What words are there? Divine? Exquisite? I think I’ll go for stunning.’ He returned to his sketch, musing on it.
    ‘Do you think he means it?’ said Sophie to Anne.
    Anne, laughing, said, ‘Do you have reason to believe he doesn’t?’
    ‘Well, I don’t think he’s given to weighty and ponderous judgements,’ said Sophie, ‘he’s more inclined to be frivolous, especially about ladies’ hats. The only thing he’s very serious about is automobiles. Now if I were wearing not a hat but a brass motor lamp, I could rely on him passing the most earnest and sincere of comments.’
    Carl arrived. In a grey jersey and old dark grey trousers he looked slightly out of touch withthe clean, civilized impeccability of the gardens. He came with grease and oil about him.
    ‘James, old chap—’
    ‘Go away, you disgusting creature,’ said Anne. ‘We are being quietly cultural. You may ask Ludwig to join us if you like, but you must please go