The Argosy — page 376: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Paul Smith, A.R.A. | 355 ‘““No such luck. You forget I’m one of the ‘ rejected ’.” ‘‘ Pardon me, old fellow! Better luck next time.” As he spoke, the successful man cordially grasped his friend’s hand, infusing a delicate shade of sympathy in his tone and a warm pressure of his fingers. Graham, flattered and pleased, took the hint, and left. Paul carefully rolled up the drawings, and, addressing them respec- tively to the Countess of Steynham and the Lady May Bramston, lighted a pipe, and proceeding to smoke it, built up as fragile and glittering a castle as any in cloudland. EL. THE Private View at the Academy was crowded as ever, spite of the additional accommodation afforded by the spacious rooms of the new building. R. A.s and A. R. A.s anda host of budding and as yet undecorated artists mingled with the gay throng of butterfly beauties. These were arrayed in all the glories of the rainbow; draped in “‘ arrangements ” of every variety of fashion, past, present or to come, from the Conquest down to the days of our own good and gracious Queen. Paul was irresistibly drawn to his own picture, a portrait of Lady May Bramston. It was well hung, although above the line. Stand- ing before it was a tall and graceful woman, from under whose small black bonnet a gleam of burnished golden hair escaped. The artist’s quick eye noted the effect of the sunlight in bringing out the warm tones. ‘“‘ First rate back study,” he reflected, as he waited patiently to see if the front view were equally good. Turning slightly to refer to the catalogue, he saw an oval face, with clear, well cut, straight features, a pure colourless complexion, dark curling lashes fringing the downcast eyes, conscious of and annoyed at his admiring gaze. A faint colour slowly rose in her cheeks, adding marvellous brightness and life to the hitherto statuesque beauty. She had apparently found the artist’s name, when, looking up, their eyes met, hers with a startled look in them. The rosy flush died out of the face, and as she abruptly turned away, a jewelled pencil dropped from her trembling fingers. Paul stooped and, raising his hat, restored it to her. Silently, she bowed her thanks and passed on. What haunting likeness was there in the face, what vague resemblance, recalling a long since lost and forgotten memory ? Isabel Gray—yes—she, the poor model, might have been like this majestic beauty, this glorious woman—had she, too, been happy, rich, and in a similar position. From room to room he followed her, as, looking straight before her, heedless of the crowd, she hurried on. | In his eager pursuit he stumbled over a gorgeous peacock-feither- EOMINGIOOKS (SO) im