12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art Read Online Free PDF

afternoon.” She surveyed the loaded trolley with a critical eye. There were two kinds of sandwiches, tongue and ham. Tea, of course, in the silver-plated pot as well as a smaller silver pot of coffee. A plate of balmorals sat beside a tray of fancy biscuits. Next to that was an urn of heavy cream, a perfect madeira cake and a Victorian sponge. She nodded, satisfied that her kitchen wouldn’t shame her in front of her guests.
    “Everything certainly looks lovely,” Lydia Modean said quickly. She glanced at the others in the room. Nobody looked like they were having a very nice time.
    Arthur Grant was perched on the edge of a chair, his fingers nervously scratching the silk lapels of his elegant gray frock coat. Neville Grant, dressed less formally in a black morning coat and wing-tipped collar, had thumped over and flopped down on the settee. Mary Grant was sitting behind the tea cart, her mouth curved in a slight smile, her eyes glittering coldly.
    Lydia avoided looking at Underhill. Watching the man smirk at her when they’d been outside had been bad enough.
    “Have you enjoyed your visit?” Arthur Grant asked timidly.
    “Very much,” Tyrell replied graciously, though he’d already answered that same query out in the garden. “London is a beautiful city.” He patted his wife’s hand. “I do believe that Johnson was correct when he wrote, ‘When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life, for there is in London all that life can afford.’”
    “You’ve read Samuel Johnson?” Underhill inquired archly. “How fascinating. I hadn’t realized one could acquire a classical education in your part of the world.”
    Refusing to rise to the bait, Tyrell merely shrugged. “San Francisco has many fine educational establishments. Unfortunately, I never had the opportunity to acquire much formal education. I’m basically self-educated. Like so many
successful
”—he stressed the last word ever so slightly—“men of my country, I relied upon myself, not my family, to make my way in the world.”
    Underhill flushed angrily as the barb struck home. Everyone in the room knew he’d dissipated the fortune his family had left him. A series of disastrous investments had forced him to sell the once extensive Underhill art collection as well as the family estate. The only thing left was a small cottage out in some unfashionable part of the countryside. Underhill now made a living using the only skill he had. An eye for art. He hung about the fringes of the art world, brokering deals and acting as an art agent.
    “And you, Mrs. Modean?” Arthur inquired hastily. “Are you enjoying your visit?”
    “Yes,” she replied. “But I’m anxious to go home.”
    “You don’t miss England, then?” Underhill asked. “I should think you’d miss your old friends.”
    “My wife loves San Francisco,” Tyrell interjected smoothly.
    Underhill ignored Modean and kept his attention fully on Mrs. Modean. “But surely you must miss the cultural aspects of our great city. I believe you were once quite involved with the art world yourself.”
    Lydia stared at him for a moment, debating on whether or not to be openly rude. “I was an artists’ model,” she replied calmly, giving her husband a quick look. He gaveher a warm smile. “And to be perfectly honest, I’m afraid I’m not as enamored of London as Tyrell. I prefer the ‘cultural aspects’ of San Francisco. Last Saturday we went to a sale of supposed ‘Old Masters’ at Christie’s. There wasn’t anything worth mentioning in the whole lot.”
    “I don’t know, my dear,” her husband said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I would have liked to have had that Morland.”
    “Why?” Lydia countered bluntly. “You didn’t like it.”
    “No,” he agreed, “but Morland’s work has continued to rise in value and it would have made a nice addition to the collection for the museum. Too bad that other fellow got his hands on it.”
    “Did it sell for a lot