Toward the end of that year, Samson undertook his portrait of Adrienne
Lescott. The work was nearing completion, but it had been agreed that
the girl herself was not to have a peep at the canvas until the painter
was ready to unveil it in a finished condition. Often as she posed,
Wilfred Horton idled in the studio with them, and often George Lescott
came to criticize, and left without criticizing. The girl was impatient
for the day when she, too, was to see the picture, concerning which the
three men maintained so profound a secrecy. She knew that Samson was a
painter who analyzed with his brush, and that his picture would show
her not only features and expression, but the man's estimate of herself.
"Do you know," he said one day, coming out from behind his easel and
studying her, through half-closed eyes, "I never really began to know
you until now? Analyzing you--studying you in this fashion, not by your
words, but by your expression, your pose, the very unconscious essence
of your personality--these things are illuminating."
"Can I smile," she queried obediently, "or do I have to keep my face
straight?"
"You may smile for two minutes," he generously conceded, "and I'm
going to come over and sit on the floor at your feet, and watch you do
it."
"And under the X-ray scrutiny of this profound analysis," she laughed,
"do you like me?"
"Wait and see," was his non-committal rejoinder.
For a few moments, neither of them spoke. He sat there gazing up, and
she gazing down. Though neither of them said it, both were thinking of
the changes that had taken place since, in this same room, they had
first met. The man knew that many of the changes in himself were due to
her, and she began to wonder vaguely if he had not also been
responsible for certain differences in her.
He felt for her, besides a deep friendship--such a deep friendship
that it might perhaps be even more--a measureless gratitude. She had
been loyal, and had turned and shaped with her deft hand and brain the
rough clay of his crude personality into something that was beginning
to show finish and design. Perhaps, she liked him the better because of
certain obstinate qualities which, even to her persuasive influence,
remained unaltered. But, if she liked him the better for these things,
she yet felt that her dominion over him was not complete.
Now, as they sat there alone in the studio, a shaft of sunlight from
the skylight fell on his squarely blocked chin, and he tossed his head,
throwing back the long lock from his forehead. It was as though he was
emphasizing with that characteristic gesture one of the things in which
he had not yielded to her modeling. The long hair still fell low around
his head. Just now, he was roughly dressed and paint-stained, but
usually he presented the inconspicuous appearance of the well-groomed
man--except for that long hair. It was not so much as a matter of
personal appearance but as a reminder of the old roughness that she
resented this. She had often suggested a visit to the barber, but to no
avail.