Portrait of a Love Read Online Free PDF

of his pocket and gave her braid a good hard tug.
    “Ouch!” said Isabel, and stared at him reproachfully.
    “I couldn’t resist,” he said with cheerful unrepentance. “I’ve been longing to do that all day. I’ve felt just like a little boy in the fourth grade ever since you appeared with that enticing braid hanging down your back.”
    Isabel’s face lit with its rare sweet smile. “Shame on you, Leo,” she said. “And to think it’s the likes of you who run this country.”
    “I’m better than a lot of them,” he said imperturbably. “And we’re making progress. You finally called me Leo.”
    Isabel smiled and they continued to stroll along the beach, each savoring the view.
    “This place is absolutely fabulous,” Isabel said again as they got into the car to leave.
    Leo started the motor. “I know. But I wouldn’t want to live here.”
    “Why not?”
    “It’s too easy, too lazy. There’s nothing to challenge you, nothing to throw your mind into.”
    “I see what you mean,” said Isabel. They were on the main road when she asked, “Do you enjoy a challenge, Leo?”
    “It’s meat and drink to me. It’s what I liked about Oxford and about football.”
    “Oxford and football,” said Isabel. “What a combination.”
    “It’s not so unusual,” he murmured. “Only at Oxford they call it rugby.”
    “And now you find your challenge in the Senate.”
    “Yes.” He glanced at her, a fleeting flash of blue. “What about you, Isabel? Do you find painting a challenge?”
    “Not exactly,” she said slowly. “I do it because, well, because I have to. But you’re right in one sense. It is a struggle to paint well.”
    There was a thoughtful pause. “Yes,” he said then. “How did you get into doing portraits? I rather thought serious artists didn’t do them anymore.”
    “For a long time they didn’t. Everything was abstract. The invention of the camera changed things so much, and representational painting seemed passé. But Abstract Expressionism has lost a lot of its force. There’s been a renewed interest in realism since, oh, the fifties, really. And a portrait—a good portrait—is much more than just a record of how a person looks. At least, I think it is.”
    “Anyone whose seen a portrait by Rembrandt would have to agree with you.”
    Isabel laughed. “I can hardly put myself in the same class as Rembrandt. But, yes, that is precisely what I mean.”
    Leo changed the subject. “I’m very sorry about the inconvenience of making you come to Washington. I reckon neither Mama nor I thought too much about how much time you would need.” A faint smile touched his lips. “The photographic mentality,” he said.
    Isabel shrugged. “It’s all right. You must know that doing this portrait is a big break for me.” She turned her head. “I’d go to Antarctica with you if I had to.”
    His blond hair blew in the breeze from the open window. The expression on his face was inscrutable. “Would you?” he said. “That’s nice to know.” A wary expression came over Isabel’s face and after a minute he went on easily, “Coming to Washington might actually be a good idea. I’ll introduce you around—’Isabel MacCarthy, the portrait painter,’ that sort of thing.”
    His tone of voice was comical and Isabel relaxed. “And I can hear the answer already. “ ‘Isabel who?’ “
    “Then I’ll say, ‘Isabel MacCarthy. From New York. My mother engaged her on the recommendation of the Times art critic to do my portrait. We shall be having a party when it’s finished—you must come.’“
    “A party,” Isabel repeated blankly.
    “Certainly. You must know that Washington spends half its time looking for excuses to have parties. There are dinners and receptions every night of the week. I save a fortune on food by dining out. So I’ll introduce you around,” he repeated. “Then Mama will come up and hostess a big unveiling party for the portrait and voilá, you’re in